Colonel Darcy
by timunderwood9
Summary: Darcy fell in love with the letters his sister's best friend Elizabeth Bennet wrote him while he was a prisoner of war in India. But her family wishes to force her to marry a wealthy man. Will he be too late when he returns to England? PIP
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This book was in Kindle Unlimited for a year and a half, but at last it is free for me to publish here. It will be completely published here over the next few months at an irregular pace of one or two posts a week. If you want to support me as an author, or are simply too impatient to find out what happens next, it is available at Amazon and within a few days of when I post chapter two, it should be available for Nook and Kobo and Apple Books, Scrivener and the like. Also, though this is exclusively through Audible, there is an audiobook version of Colonel Darcy.**

 **I hope you all enjoy the ride.**

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February 1779

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Bennet eagerly grabbed her letter from the silver platter the Bennets' short footman balanced in one hand.

More sedately, her father took his correspondence out of the morning post and laughed at Elizabeth's eagerness. "Is it from little Georgie?"

Elizabeth nodded as she leveraged off the wax sealing the paper with her thumbnail. "Papa, I'm going to go take a walk about while I read."

Mr. Bennet waved his hand to let her go while he opened a letter that Elizabeth could see was from Georgiana's father. "Do have fun. Bundle up tightly."

Elizabeth laughed and put on her warm blue coat. It was a warm day for February, but still quite cold. Elizabeth had met Georgiana three years ago when she traveled the continent with her father.

As a child, Elizabeth had eagerly listened to Papa's stories of the great Roman ruins and museums and cities he had seen during his Grand Tour.

She wanted to be just like her father and experience everything he had.

Now that she was so much older she realized it was silly, but when she was a little girl, Elizabeth's ambition had been to be a gentleman of letters like Mr. Bennet. Of late, she had decided she could be a very learned lady instead. Elizabeth almost _hoped_ Mama was right, and she would scare off all of the young gentlemen. She hadn't met many, but she was quite sure their distaste would be no great loss.

Elizabeth had begged for so many stories that Papa decided to travel again, this time with her. Rather than waiting till she was older, he set off immediately as he was worried that another war would begin between England and France.

Remembering her _wonderful_ trip to the continent, Elizabeth walked outside. She looked around to ensure no one could watch her; at almost fourteen she was quite old for letting people see her unladylike behaviors. She carefully folded and held her letter to protect it from the wind and ran down the lane at full pace. When she came to a stop, Elizabeth laughed and blushed at the gamekeeper who had stood from examining a trap to smile at her.

With a gay wave, Elizabeth skipped away from him, breathing heavily.

Georgie was much younger than Elizabeth, and she had become lost from her party in a large museum in France. She had been the most adorable blonde little girl when she walked up to them, drawn by the familiar sound of English. Georgiana was crying and terribly scared, and it was impossible for Elizabeth to not _adore_ the sweet little girl. Elizabeth entertained Georgiana, by telling her stories Papa had told her about the paintings, while they searched for her father and brother.

Mr. Darcy and his son were tall gentlemen with gleaming white stockings and solemn faces. However, they both had warm smiles when delighted, like when Georgiana ran up to Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam when the two groups found each other.

Papa and Mr. Darcy had become immediate friends, because they were both completely obsessed with classical languages. They spent the rest of the day switching between Latin and Greek as they argued about the contents of the museum. Because Papa had taught them to Elizabeth, so that he could keep in practice, she spoke both languages perfectly. But even though she understood their conversation, _she_ was happy for there to be another girl to pay attention to, even if Georgiana was much smaller.

Mr. Darcy was touring the continent with his younger son, Mr. Fitzwilliam, who planned to purchase a commission in the army as soon he returned from the tour. His older son, Stanley, who, she had been informed by Georgiana, was named after his godfather who was an earl, had been left at their home in Derbyshire to enjoy the taste of independence and to manage the estate.

As both gentlemen had a similar itinerary, they decided to journey together since it would be far more _fun_ to voyage with another gentleman who was _sensible_ in the same way.

For Elizabeth, Georgiana proved to be a superb substitute sister. Even though Elizabeth had loved traveling just her and her father, she had missed Jane and her little sisters. Georgiana was such a quiet, sweet girl, but even though she was much younger than Elizabeth, they played games and talked together constantly. It was like having Kitty and Lydia with her, except better because Georgiana listened to her with wide-eyed nods.

Today's letter from Georgiana described how she practiced the piano and how her governess spoke French and Italian with accents almost as good as the natives. Fitzwilliam's regiment had returned from America, and he had left that regiment and purchased a captain's commission in a new one.

Elizabeth was not sure if she liked Fitzwilliam. As she walked back towards the house, buffeted by the cold breezes, she contemplated that serious question again. The day they met he had been superior and insisted that she couldn't speak Latin, since little girls didn't speak Latin.

Ha! She had proven quite quickly that she spoke it _far_ better than he could. And then he started to tweak her on the nose, like he did Georgiana.

Georgiana adored Fitzwilliam, but she didn't like Stanley much. Elizabeth had never met Stanley because he'd been too busy to meet his father's friends the time they reunited in London a year after the trip to the continent ended.

Most of the time Elizabeth liked Fitzwilliam. Even if he was _far_ too sure he was right about everything, he listened to both her and Georgie, and he never got terribly bored the way most adults did. They had argued often while traveling from France to Italy to Germany and finally to the Dutch Republic.

Instead of dismissing her like most adults did, especially _male_ adults, he went to the effort to prove that she was wrong. It was terribly annoying that he often succeeded. But he would admit he was wrong if she came up with a really good counterargument.

The few times he did so were almost worth the annoyance of being proven wrong so often.

So, despite being dreadfully tall and proud, Elizabeth thought he was the best young gentleman she knew. Not that she knew many young gentlemen, not being out, but Elizabeth had seen enough of the species — and Charlotte had confirmed this — to know they usually spoke terrific nonsense.

Elizabeth opened the door to Longbourn and smiled at the pleasant blast of warm air. She immediately shut the door to keep out the cold and pulled her gloves off and hung up her pelisse without waiting for one of the servants to help her. She mentally composed the beginning of her response to Georgie.

It was a great responsibility to have a friend so much younger who looked up to her. Elizabeth needed to be worthy of Georgiana's admiration.

She ran up to her room to place Georgiana's latest letter in the boxwood writing desk in her room with all of the other letters she had received from her friend.

When she had finished placing the letter, Mrs. Hill knocked on Elizabeth's door and opened it. "Your father wished to see you the moment you returned."

Elizabeth immediately knew when she stepped into the library that something was wrong. Papa had taken his spectacles off, and he stared through the paper on the desk before him; his face was gray and still. Even though as a general rule he did not reply quickly to letters, Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy had carried on a weekly correspondence, written in Greek, Latin, or the Hebrew they were learning in tandem.

Mr. Bennet looked up at Elizabeth, and he rubbed his hand over his pale forehead and cheeks.

Worry twisted in Elizabeth's stomach, and she grabbed at the scratchy sleeve of her father's grey wool robe. "Papa?"

"Mr. Darcy is dying."

"But…" Elizabeth had seen him last spring in London, and he had been vigorous and gray-headed, with infrequent bright smiles. He was only a little older than Papa. Elizabeth bit her lip and said in a rush, "Georgiana did not say anything — you must be mistaken."

Mr. Bennet slowly folded up the letter from his friend. "He wishes to hide it from her until Fitzwilliam is present. And… Georgiana has few friends. He hoped that we would visit and stay until…well to ensure that Georgiana has company, even if Fitzwilliam's leave ends."

"Is it certain? There must be some hope. They are so rich can they not find some doctor?"

Mr. Bennet slumped into his chair and pulled Elizabeth to him so he could kiss her on the forehead and hold her. He shook his head. "He has already seen several specialists. There is no hope. It will just be a few months."

Elizabeth began to cry, frightened for Georgiana and her father. "Poor Georgiana. Poor Georgiana."

Pemberley was enormous. Elizabeth had known that the Darcys were wealthy from seeing their substantial London house, which was situated in a fashionable square. However, Pemberley was special. The park had endless winding lanes, a bubbling stream from which fish leapt, a substantial deer park, and the house itself had rooms and rooms, and long galleries, and three wings.

Having been to the continent, Elizabeth had seen the palaces of great aristocrats and monarchs. Versailles, for example, was certainly far vaster and more impressive. But Elizabeth was certain there could be no estate of a private gentleman more perfect than Pemberley. The large old house belonged in the green Derbyshire landscape.

The instant Elizabeth arrived in the house, Georgiana ran up to her and seized her in a sobbing embrace. A few days earlier Mr. Darcy had told her after he had a bad day. It terrified Elizabeth to imagine that such a thing could happen, and one day would happen, to her own father.

Georgiana clung to Elizabeth like a rescued puppy. They talked together hour after hour, and they walked around the estate together looking at the house from every perspective. Georgiana pointed out all of the nooks and crannies of the vast mansion, and they ate and played together.

It would do no good to let Georgiana dwell on how her father was dying so Elizabeth contrived to keep her distracted each day from morning until the family gathered in the drawing rooms in the evening.

The staff was kind, and the cook always let Georgiana and Elizabeth steal a little morsel, even if the hour was quite late or very early. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, lectured them sternly after they broke an old vase playing a game that involved chasing each other through the halls, but Elizabeth could tell her eyes were amused. Elizabeth decided she liked her.

Georgiana's governess, Miss Churchill, made sure that Georgiana spent at least a few hours every day on her lessons, and Elizabeth joined her and studied the books that Papa wanted her to read.

Fitzwilliam arrived a few days after Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth. He immediately went to his father, and he stayed in the study with him for a long time. As soon as a servant informed Elizabeth and Georgiana that Fitzwilliam had arrived, Georgiana insisted they wait in the hallway so that she could speak to him at the first possible moment.

They sat together on the solid heavy dark chairs with carved lion's paws for feet. Elizabeth held Georgiana's hand, and her friend gripped it back. Georgiana was so eager to see her favorite brother that she vibrated and bounced up and down on the blue cushions. Most of the time Georgiana tried to pretend Mr. Darcy would get better, even though she knew he wouldn't. After a long time, the tall door to Mr. Darcy's private study was at last pulled open, and Fitzwilliam tottered out with a white-faced look that made Elizabeth's heart squeeze for him.

Georgiana pulled her hand from Elizabeth's and hurled herself into her brother's arms. He embraced her and bent to kiss her forehead. Mr. Darcy followed his son out of the room and smiled at seeing his two children together. Elizabeth had not seen Fitzwilliam for two years, and his appearance struck her.

He wore his scarlet uniform, with epaulettes on his shoulders, a gleaming white belt and tall black boots. He had a long noble nose, and a strong jaw line. His skin was vibrantly tanned. He was even taller than his father, and his hair had a dark shade of brown and fell in neat lines over his forehead and around his ears. He had bold eyebrows and deep blue eyes. There was a haunted look in those deep eyes. He looked at her over Georgiana's shoulder.

Elizabeth wanted to embrace him like she could embrace Georgiana until he felt…warm despite being so sad. She would do anything to make him look less lost.

Still holding Georgiana around her shoulders he nodded to Elizabeth. "Hello, Lizzy."

Elizabeth stood, as Georgiana exclaimed, without releasing her hold on her brother, "Oh, she has been so wonderful. It will now be like when we were in France again. All of us together."

"Yes." Fitzwilliam smiled in the saddest manner possible and reached forward his left hand to tweak Elizabeth's nose like he used to when she was a child, and she did not have the heart to complain, even though he was still treating her like a child. She also liked the familiarity and being touched by him. His fingers were long and neatly trimmed.

The day Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet arrived at Pemberley they met Georgie's older brother, but he was not often about the estate. In mornings he talked about estate matters at length with his father, but he had already been well trained and did not need to learn more. He now managed most business matters that arose. He almost never talked to Georgiana, and the only words he spoke to Elizabeth were when they were introduced. He was a little shorter than his father and brother, and his face was a little softer. He was said to take after his mother's family in looks more than the Darcys.

Instead of staying near the estate, Stanley drank and raced his carriage with friends from around the neighborhood. Elizabeth overheard a conversation between Fitzwilliam and Stanley, where Stanley said it was terribly inconvenient that the old man was dying _now_ and forcing him to be dull in Derbyshire during the first months of the London season, when everyone who mattered was gone and it was too late for most hunting. He'd been looking forward to the races this year.

Fitzwilliam was desperate to be near his father. Elizabeth had seen how close they were during the tour of the continent. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were as tight as she and Papa. Fitzwilliam spent hours every day talking and reading to Mr. Darcy.

With Fitzwilliam there, Georgiana had two idols to split her attention between, and Fitzwilliam was willing to entertain them both when he wasn't with his father. He laughingly played hide and seek with them, he walked them both about the estate, and he played cards and checkers with them during the day when he wasn't with his father. And he talked to Elizabeth about what she read.

During the evenings when Mr. Darcy had guests, Georgiana and Elizabeth ate in the nursery, and Fitzwilliam always came for a few minutes to talk to them before the dinner began. Then they waited to be called into the drawing room where they would play the piano and sing to amuse the guests. After dinner was over, Fitzwilliam brought them down himself, and he always tweaked Georgiana's nose, though Elizabeth had convinced him to stop tweaking hers.

During nights when there were no guests, they gathered in the drawing room, and the adults argued about politics and philosophy, and all manner of interesting subjects. Elizabeth listened eagerly and pushed her way into the conversation when she could. Mr. Bennet had always encouraged her to think and speak for herself on any topic that interested her. Fitzwilliam treated what she said as seriously as Papa did, like she was a fellow intelligent creature, instead of just a girl.

It made Elizabeth's heart flutter.

He had a perpetually serious expression, except when he smiled and laughed. He often smiled and laughed when with her and Georgiana. Elizabeth liked it when that sad look completely left his eyes for an hour or two.

Some evenings they took turns reading pieces from great plays and poetry: Shakespeare, Molière, Milton. Fitzwilliam had a perfect voice. Elizabeth loved it when it was his turn to read because she could unembarrassedly watch him speak.

A few days after he arrived at Pemberley, Fitzwilliam entered the schoolroom and sat next to Elizabeth while she listened to Georgiana practice the piano. Elizabeth blushed and felt a little confused by the fact that _he_ was speaking to her alone.

He went to tweak her nose. But Elizabeth blocked his hand and said, "I'm quite too old for that now. I'm almost fourteen."

He suppressed a smile as he nodded in agreement. "Very old indeed."

She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but that would only prove his point.

"I am very glad you are here for Georgie… You know how fond she is of my father. You have kept her from sickening or obsessing too much. Miss Churchill told me she was quite unmanageable for the two days before you arrived and she almost refused to eat anything. You…you are always so patient with her."

"Oh, no! Don't thank me. I must. I must. Georgie is as dear to me as my own sisters. There is nothing praiseworthy in that."

He smiled at her, a real smile, not the sad smile that he showed when he remembered that his father was dying. Elizabeth smiled back, smitten.

He sprung his hand forward and tweaked her nose.

Elizabeth blushed. "Fitzwilliam. Stop that."

He laughed. "Yes, yes you are too old. But if you are like a sister to Georgie, I promise you I will annoy _her_ when _she_ is fourteen and _old_."

It made Elizabeth glow inside that night. She was so happy that Fitzwilliam thanked her, even though keeping Georgie company _really_ wasn't anything but doing what she wished to. And she decided she didn't mind so much when he tweaked her nose. At least not when he laughed afterwards.

As the weeks went on, everyone strove to be cheerful for the sake of Mr. Darcy, and his condition worsened quickly.

At first Mr. Darcy had looked pale and thin, but not so different. But day by day he visibly shrank. His nose became smaller, the skin around his eyes became stretched out, as though the illness in his body was eating all of his being. He tired easily and went to sleep each night before even Georgiana became fatigued. His voice weakened, and while he still loved to listen, he said less and less during their evenings. He stopped calling on his neighbors and only let those he was close to call on him.

One day a little more than a month after the letter informing them of his condition had arrived, Mr. Darcy was old and frail suddenly. In the course of that month he had aged from middle-age to decrepitude.

The pained, solemn way Fitzwilliam looked at his father when he could do so without his father seeing him made Elizabeth hurt for the dying man and his family more than anything.

One evening, Fitzwilliam announced in the drawing room, "The letter I received from the Colonel this morning, we now know what our orders are. In four or five months, once we are done recruiting and training the new soldiers, we sail for India."

"India?" Mr. Darcy was surprised by his son's information. "So they will not send you to back to America?"

"The recent entry of the French into the war has changed matters — the Company informed the ministry that the French are negotiating an alliance with a great local monarch in the south of India, and they have requested that more European soldiers be sent to boost our position."

Elizabeth looked admiringly at Fitzwilliam, who spoke proudly of how he was to go out to fight. She imagined herself as an Amazon warrior, from the old Greek tales, able to fight alongside Fitzwilliam to protect their happy England and promote the interests of King George. Weeks of listening to Fitzwilliam's fervent belief in the Empire had pulled Elizabeth away from her father's cynical opinions.

Though she thought it was good that he would fight the fantastical natives of India, Elizabeth remembered her travels through France far too fondly to think of fighting _them_ as a noble task, even though the French lacked British liberties.

Both Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy had dark frowns. Fitzwilliam said with a wry twist of his lip to Mr. Bennet, " _You_ should be pleased by this news — after all, you do not approve of our war in the colonies."

"I do not approve of the _Company's_ rule of India either. No, that is not why I sigh. We are at war, and young men who read the Iliad when they were young will be entranced by hope of glory. More men die of disease than in battle. India is not a healthy place for European men."

Elizabeth felt a chill at those words.

"I shall take every reasonable precaution to protect my health." Fitzwilliam spread his hands wide. "It is not so very unhealthful."

Mr. Darcy's voice had become a perpetually hoarse croak. "I wish you had gone into the law, or the church, anything but this."

"I am doing something great, something which matters, something important. I would not be a coward who stays at home to earn money while my country is beset all around with enemies. Britons shall never be slaves."

"It is a terrible thing." Mr. Darcy paused; there was something portentous in his manner that prevented any interruption. "It is a terrible thing to leave this world and know that my son shall head off as soon as he has buried me into a battle."

Fitzwilliam looked mulish, as though he wished to argue with his father, but would not out of respect. Elizabeth's heart seized as she looked at Georgiana's vibrant and healthy brother.

Would he die too?

The brilliant scarlet of his uniform seemed bloody.

Mr. Darcy started coughing endlessly, and he clutched at his chest. Fitzwilliam jumped from his seat and held him so he could hack more easily. Georgiana was wide-eyed and pale, and she clutched at Elizabeth's arm while they watched Mr. Darcy's coughs go on and on.

Once his coughs had receded a little, Fitzwilliam rang the bell for a servant. Mr. Darcy weakly said, "Do not send for the doctor. I am fine, I am fine." He stood up unsteadily and weaved as he tried to walk towards the door.

Fitzwilliam took his arm and helped Mr. Darcy to sit down again as he could not stay up.

"Son." He pulled Fitzwilliam close, so that he could speak to him without raising his voice. Though she strained her ears, Elizabeth could not hear what he said. Fitzwilliam nodded somberly and helped his father stagger out of the room.

From that day Mr. Darcy's decline became precipitous. For the next two nights he sat out with them and listened, but he said almost nothing. The day following that, when he woke, Mr. Darcy was unable to leave his bed. The doctor was called, but he could do nothing except give his patient a strong dose of opium to dull the pain.

In a weak whisper Mr. Darcy told his servants to carry him into the library. He sat in his favorite chair. They all stayed in the library that day, even the oldest brother, Stanley. The doctor did not believe Mr. Darcy would live out the week. Mr. Bennet sat next to his friend and read to him in a firm steady voice from the book of John in Greek.

Elizabeth whispered to Georgiana the words in English as Mr. Bennet spoke. "Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

Before he was carried back to his bed that night, Mr. Darcy had all of his children come to him, and he kissed their foreheads and whispered a message to each.

The next morning, when the servants came to wake him, they were not surprised to find Mr. Darcy cold in his bed.

Elizabeth knew when Fitzwilliam and his brother entered the breakfast room. The expression on Fitzwilliam's face told her what had happened during the night.

Stanley announced his death.

Georgiana started up, pushing her chair backwards with a scrape before Elizabeth could grab at her arms. "No. No. No. I must see him. He can't be."

Fitzwilliam grabbed her to prevent her from running from the room, and he shook his head, holding her.

"No, no! Let me see him. Let me see him." Georgiana wrung her small hands.

"You do not. He is no longer here, he is elsewhere."

Georgiana tried to struggle out of Fitzwilliam's hold to get around to the door.

"Let her go," Stanley said sharply. He was now Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth thought. Stanley brushed at the edge of his eyes. "She wishes to see Father's body, I say, let her."

Fitzwilliam's expression was bleak and dry. He still held his sister and shook his head again, _no_.

"The deuce." Stanley brushed his hand across his eyes and exclaimed, "I'll not cry in front of you all — you don't make the decisions for Georgie, I do."

He seized his sister's hand and roughly dragged her out of the room, saying, "Let's see Papa."

Elizabeth started up behind them, but Stanley showed her a forbidding glare and said harshly, "I'll not make this corpse viewing a mass spectacle. Stay here. By God, I am the master of this house now."

Elizabeth sat back down, and she thought of Mr. Darcy, dead and cold in his room. She softly cried.

Fitzwilliam looked towards the door with a frown, and then went into the hallway and spoke in a low, steady voice to Mrs. Reynolds, making plans and giving orders. Elizabeth knew he was fighting to stay calm by keeping busy.

After several minutes Georgiana ran back into the room, white faced and tear streaked. She ran to Fitzwilliam and hugged him, sobbing against his shirt. Fitzwilliam held Georgie tenderly and carefully.

Georgiana pounded her fists against Fitzwilliam's chest. "Why aren't you crying too? Why aren't you crying? Even Stanley is crying."

His eyes looked out over the room, a little helplessly, and they caught Elizabeth's. Elizabeth's stomach clenched with grief for them. Georgiana could not see that her brother was crying, just not with his eyes. She thought it was worse to cry only on the inside.

Elizabeth took her dear friend from him and held Georgiana tightly in her arms and cried with her. She worried for Fitzwilliam.

That day there was a constant clatter from the drive of carriages and horses arriving, as the neighborhood visited _en masse_ to pay their respects and offer condolences to the family.

Fitzwilliam and Stanley stood in the entry hall greeting people, quietly shaking hands and listening to endless kind words about their father. For part of the day Georgiana sat out on display to the neighborhood, with her hand tightly clutching Elizabeth's. But when she began to sob again, Stanley querulously demanded she remove herself to the nursery.

It was a somber day, and instead of going to her own bed that night, Georgiana cried herself to sleep with Elizabeth.

The next day the Darcys' high relations, the Earl of Matlock and his lady, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, arrived. Lady Catherine had a nasty sneer, and she almost refused to be introduced to Mr. Bennet by Fitzwilliam. Georgiana and Elizabeth sat in the nursery, and Georgiana talked about how Lady Catherine frightened her.

A little after noon that day, Stanley summoned Georgiana and her governess to speak about how she would be educated now that her father was dead.

It was a fine warm day, and Elizabeth left the house to walk about the park, knowing that they would soon leave the beautiful estate. Elizabeth felt a dread for Georgiana in her stomach. Stanley hardly cared about his sister. Elizabeth would need to send her even more and more letters once Fitzwilliam had left the country.

Despite the beauty of the day, and the presence of spring butterflies fluttering about, Elizabeth felt somber and sad. On the point of crying again, she saw near the stables a friendly cat lying rolled over on the ground. This cat often butted her head up against Elizabeth and begged to be picked up.

Elizabeth wanted to clutch a warm creature, so she ran towards the grey striped cat. However, the animal, startled by Elizabeth's rapid approach, jumped up and ran into the barn. More cautiously Elizabeth followed her with a smile on her face. But once she entered the barn, she was startled by the sound of a sniffle and saw that Fitzwilliam sat on a yellow pile of straw. He brushed with the back of his hand at his splotchy face. His eyes were puffy and red, teardrops stood on the edge of his nose, and he'd pulled his hand through his hair making it wild and disordered.

Seeing her, Fitzwilliam began to rearrange his clothes and he wiped at his face as though embarrassed. Following an impetuous impulse, Elizabeth grabbed him in a tight hug and said, "Don't stop crying. Don't stop. You shouldn't cry alone."

He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. He didn't say anything, so Elizabeth said, "He was always very kind to me. Do you remember how he made fun of you when you told me I shouldn't speak Latin because I was a little girl? And how you then…"

"Yes, I remember. We had such good times." Darcy's voice was choked. "I never saw him happier than on that trip, eagerly showing me and Georgie his favorite sights. He would look at me, and his eyes shined when I ran around the ruins of a castle."

"Papa loved arguing with him. It was so lucky they met each other."

"Two good English gentlemen, wandering Italy with copies of Plato and Cicero open. He was so happy to find a man with a similar spirit."

Elizabeth sobbed. Fitzwilliam's tears also began again and with their arms around each other they sat on the rough straw and wept.

A week after Mr. Darcy died, Fitzwilliam left Pemberley to join his regiment. The new Mr. Darcy was clearly not enthused about continuing to host his father's guests, and Mr. Bennet had made plans for him and Elizabeth to leave just a few days later.

The day before they left, Georgiana and Elizabeth tramped through the fields and woods around the house. Georgiana was miserable. "Papa is dead. Stanley doesn't want me, he has decided to dismiss Miss Churchill and send me to a school, and Fitzwilliam will go to India. Maybe he will die like Papa did."

"You shall write me exceedingly often, and we will find some way to visit in between the sessions of your school. Do not cry."

"I can't help it. I am alone now."

"You are not. You _are not_. We have each other, and even when we are separated we still are present with each other, like you and Fitzwilliam are together. You are another sister to me."

"But we are not _really_ sisters."

Elizabeth smiled at Georgiana's small screwed up face. "Come, we _shall_ become sisters."

"How?"

Elizabeth interlaced her fingers with Georgiana's. They set off to find yellow roses, which symbolized friendship, and some candles and paper. The two girls wove the yellow roses into each other's hair, and then Elizabeth had them write on strips of paper: _We are sisters, Lizzy and Georgie are sisters_. Then they put the papers under a candle holder and lit the candles and danced around it in a circle, with their hands interlaced and foreheads touching.

They chanted, "Lalalala, we are sisters. We are sisters."

Then they blew out the candles, and each girl took the paper the other had written and one of the candles as a keepsake.

"Now," Elizabeth said. "We have chosen to be sisters and will always be connected in the heart, no matter what else happens. We are really and truly sisters in the heart."

Georgiana smiled, and while both girls wept the next day at parting, Elizabeth knew her friend was much happier than she had been the day before.

Chapter 2

Late Summer 1779

Hertfordshire

It was an easy turnpike journey along the road out from London to the small market town of Meryton, and then another turn took them to Mr. Bennet's estate. Darcy had chosen to spend the final weeks of leave before he took ship to India escorting Georgiana to visit the Bennets. His little sister bounced on the red velvet cushions of their traveling carriage the entire way, eagerly talking about how she and Lizzy had sworn to be sisters and how excited she was to see Lizzy's home and family at last, even though Lizzy had warned her that the rest were boisterous, and not like her and Mr. Bennet.

Darcy smiled and listened patiently to his sister, and though he teased Georgiana, he was also eager. Ever since she had embraced him while he cried, Darcy had felt a special tenderness towards little Lizzy Bennet.

Miss Churchill, Georgiana's governess, also rode with them. It was almost the end of her employment, as Stanley had decided he did not wish to keep Georgiana at Pemberley, and once she saw his ship leave, Miss Churchill would take Georgiana to a school a little out of London and then move onto a new posting she had found.

As they rode Miss Churchill made Georgiana recite the names of the English monarchs in order, while they both giggled at the silly rhyme Miss Churchill had made up to help Georgiana remember. Darcy's annoyance with Stanley unpleasantly returned.

He'd argued with his brother the last evening they spent together. Half of it had been about Georgiana's education; Darcy saw little reason to change the course that Father had followed since their trip around Europe, while Stanley did not like the idea of having a young girl always underfoot on the estate. And Lady Catherine had convinced Stanley he should send Georgiana to a school where the superiority of her breeding could shine amongst other highborn ladies.

Nonsense.

Also, Stanley had named his favorite drinking and card partner, Father's godson Mr. Wickham, to replace Mr. Partridge as the vicar at Kympton. Wickham needed to be supported in entering _some_ profession. But he had found a love of whoring as soon as he'd turned fifteen, and he gambled a great deal. Wickham's manner when they met at the start of Darcy's leave did not suggest he had turned into a more respectable creature.

Couldn't Wickham take up the law or have Stanley purchase a commission for him? Clergymen should at least make a pretense of being moral exemplars.

Darcy frowned as the carriage rattled over the packed gravel roadway. He wished he had not argued with Stanley their last night before a parting that would last at least three or four years. They had shaken hands the next morning and parted amiably after apologizing to each other for the shouted words, but it was still not as it should have been.

Georgiana punched Darcy hard on the arm. "You promised you would stop wool gathering. Are you not pleased that you'll see Lizzy and Mr. Bennet before you leave for that horrid hot place? Aren't you? Aren't you?"

"I am. Though, you recall how I reviewed my Latin conjugations last night, I fear Mr. Bennet shall be disappointed in how I've let my skills deteriorate since taking my commission."

"Lizzy will make fun of you most."

"Yes, I suspect she will."

"Isn't she so clever to speak Latin better than you?"

Darcy smiled. "Your Lizzy is _very_ clever."

Most of the way was along a newly built turnpike, and the traffic was thick when they first left London but thinned as the day went on. It was near the middle of the afternoon when the carriage rolled them up to Mr. Bennet's red brick estate. Darcy looked it over, determined to like it.

It was not a grand structure, the way Pemberley was, but it was well located, with plenty of woods about for hunting and walks. The broad fields were well tended and tall with yellow wheat waiting to be cut. The road up to the estate was bordered with a pleasant leafy drive, and there were a few acres of gardens, lawns, and shrubberies surrounding them.

Lizzy had walked literally every mile of the paths of his park during her visit. There were places she had talked about finding that _he_ had nearly forgotten about. Darcy imagined the girl running about these leafy drives and avenues of her home country with equal enthusiasm.

Mr. Bennet and his family came out to greet him. Of course, Lizzy and Georgiana ran to embrace each other the instant Georgiana was out of the carriage.

While the girls did so, Darcy shook hands with Mr. Bennet. "Fitzwilliam, my dear lad. It is so good to see you. You look very well. This is my wife, Mrs. Bennet."

The woman curtsied. Her eyes were bright and had a vivacious similarity to Lizzy's. She wore a great deal of lace on her cap and around her dress. Darcy bowed and she curtsied. Then with a slightly satirical tone Mr. Bennet said, "And my eldest daughter, Jane."

Darcy almost gasped and felt suddenly awkward. Jane Bennet was startlingly beautiful. He knew she was out, though she was only sixteen. There was something perfectly fetching in her soft cheeks and the curve of her eyebrows. She had such a sweet smile, and Darcy suddenly wished he was better at charming young ladies. He bowed as well as he could and mumbled, "How do you do?" and compulsively glanced at her.

It was just a small family dinner that night, so that Georgiana and Elizabeth could be at the table. Georgiana and Elizabeth eagerly chattered with each other, and Lizzy refereed the questions her younger sisters asked Georgiana.

Darcy spent most of the dinner talking to Mr. Bennet and his wife, and Miss Bennet.

Mrs. Bennet asked, "But surely you must have been given some consideration by your father? Of course the estate went to your brother in its entirety — it is a pity he did not come to visit such dear friends of his father — but surely you must have something. A father with such a great estate must've left something for you."

She looked intently at him with her lips open as she eagerly waited for Darcy's reply.

"I do have something," Darcy replied evenly, internally amused by the idea of Mrs. Bennet trying to thrust the soft Jane Bennet on his irritable brother. "It is not a great deal, though."

Mrs. Bennet frowned at that, and glanced between him and Jane. "Lord! Of course not. But what is not a great deal in your circles might be a very great deal in others."

Darcy looked at his host. Mr. Bennet returned an even look that showed he was laughing. Was that why Mr. Bennet had married a woman so different from himself? He enjoyed the spectacle she produced.

"There are circles where my fortune would be considered very great indeed. However, you probably would not."

Darcy in fact had fifteen thousand and the promise that his brother would pay for his colonelcy when the time arrived to purchase it. That was a matter of three or four thousand pounds. He suspected from the veneration Mrs. Bennet gave to her daughter's beauty and perfection, that would not be nearly enough to buy her blessing.

"Lord! You must feel horridly ill used by your father." She then smiled at him vivaciously. "But you are certain to make your own fortune, are you not? That poor Mr. Clive who went mad — I cannot understand how any man with that much money could kill himself, I would never be unhappy if I had so much money — he returned from India with nearly an uncountable fortune."

"The continent has become more settled since then. However, if we do sack some Indian city or capture a royal treasury, I could earn a great deal in prize money. I do not count upon such happenings."

"But…surely you will throw yourself in the way of every opportunity for advancement and fortune."

"Earning a great fortune and distinction through military action is often as much a matter of fortune as skill. I have greater opportunity than most, but it shall be years before I am placed in a position of significant command."

"Lord! That is a pity." Mrs. Bennet looked between him and the sweetly listening Jane Bennet. "You shall find it difficult to afford to marry until then."

Darcy almost rolled his eyes, and he glanced at Mr. Bennet who made a tiny, meaningful smirk. Darcy returned it. Mrs. Bennet _was_ amusing, he realized. It was silly; he had only just reached his twenty-first year and had held his captain's commission for less than four months. He had plenty of time to make a name for himself before he married.

The outcome of Mrs. Bennet's inquisition did not bother him. He had quickly decided from her conversation that Jane Bennet had more docility than substance. She would make a fine wife for many men, but even if he could afford to marry at present, he would not seek _her_ hand. It was a pity that so pretty a girl was as dull as almost every other woman. She was still as beautiful as she had seemed at his first glance, with perfect symmetrical features and hair like honey, clear pretty eyes and pink-hued cheeks.

Miss Bennet just nodded along when Mrs. Bennet promised she would be an excellent wife, and that there had been no irregularities in _her_ education, unlike Miss Lizzy who Mr. Bennet let do whatever she wanted.

Well Darcy _liked_ Lizzy a great deal. She was clever, capable, and despite being years older than Georgiana, constantly patient and sweet with his sister.

After dinner they listened to Georgiana play the piano while Lizzy sang with her. Darcy played chess with Mr. Bennet and then with Lizzy, losing badly to Mr. Bennet and narrowly beating his daughter. She laughed and promised that when he came back from India _he_ would lose if he did not stay in practice.

After the ladies had gone to bed, Mr. Bennet grabbed Darcy before he could go to his room. "Come have a nightcap with me."

They went into the library, where several candles glowed, though the fire had burned low. The endless rows of books on each wall were dimly visible in the low light. Mr. Bennet poured each of them a thin sliver of brandy into his diamond cut drinking glasses.

They lifted the glasses up and Mr. Bennet clinked the glasses together and said an old Roman salutation, "Si vales, valeo." If you are in good health, I am in good health.

They both drank their glasses and put them down.

"So you are for battle bound. Just a fortnight left in our jolly, ancient England."

"I only have another ten days of leave before I must join the regiment in the camp outside London. But another six days until we board ship and leave."

"Will your brother, or that cousin you are so fond of, be there to farewell you, or is it only Georgiana?"

"Richard left for Canada two months past. I was the one who saw him off." Darcy smirked and added dryly, "The logistics of him returning the favor so soon afterwards would be…difficult."

Mr. Bennet laughed and poured them both another capful of brandy. "And Georgiana, she is going to a school? It is a pity as she is so fond of Miss Churchill."

"I _would_ agree. But it is not my place; as Stanley reminded me repeatedly, _I_ was not named her guardian."

"It always is frustrating when you do not have the control over matters you know should be managed better. Would you like if Lizzy and I went to London with you? I do not like Town, but my wife's brother lives there, and you might enjoy having more friendly faces see you off."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you — Georgiana would also be delighted."

"Thank Lizzy — 'tis her idea. She wishes to extend her time with Georgiana as far as possible, and also does not want _you_ to feel as though she is not concerned for you."

Over the week and a half at Longbourn, Darcy spent far more time with Lizzy and Georgiana than Mr. Bennet. He let her lead them on walks everywhere in the neighborhood. It was the high part of summer, and the weather was perfect. Darcy did not meet many of the neighbors, but he did several times meet the Lucases, who were intimate friends of the Bennets.

The morning before they left for London, Darcy wrote several quick letters in the breakfast room and went to the stables to get his horse for a morning ride.

When he entered the well-cleaned stable with its smell of fresh straw and dust and the horses, he saw Lizzy seated on a bale of hay, with a purring black and white cat held up to her face. She was rubbing their noses together. "Who is a darling cat? Who is, who is? You are. Yes, you are."

Darcy watched Elizabeth and grinned widely. When she noticed him, she reddened prettily and then put the cat down. The animal rolled over on its back and displayed its belly as Elizabeth stood. "Headed out for a ride?"

"I was." He sat down on a bale of hay next to Lizzy's and patted on it for her to sit back down. "But I believe watching you and your friend is more entertaining."

Elizabeth blushed and sat down. Prompted by a mischievous impulse he grabbed and lightly twisted her nose.

"I thought you were done doing that." She laughed and said, "How would you like it if I twisted your nose every time I saw you?"

"I believe you are too short." Darcy pointed at the cat who was flopping around like a wriggling worm displaying the light colored fur on his stomach. "A belly rub is desired."

Elizabeth bent to pick up the cat and quirked her eye at Darcy. She then rubbed her nose against the cat's once more. "You _are_ a darling cat."

She was very red faced as she then buried her hands in the animal's belly. The cat purred in reply. Lizzy said, "We perhaps have not given you the best entertainment for your last weeks in England."

"Nonsense."

"Papa doesn't spend much time in society, and we haven't introduced you around since Georgiana and I are too young. Most adults, like you, want parties and balls and the like. Jane and Charlotte are always running from one place to another. You've not been anywhere at all. Georgie and I have monopolized you so."

Darcy grinned at her. "Did I bore you dreadfully making you show me all about the country?"

She pushed him in the arm, knocking the cat off her lap. The noble animal squawked unhappily and imperiously walked to the edge of the room and curled up into a ball.

"Seriously, don't you wish you were out hunting or doing whatever young gentlemen do? By the way, just what _do_ young gentlemen do?"

"Mostly bothersome things not proper for _your_ ears."

"I won't tell anyone that you told me. And Papa would not mind if you told me, even though Mama would."

"Why don't you ask Mr. Bennet if you are so curious?"

Elizabeth blinked in surprise at the suggestion. "Oh, yes. He once _was_ a young gentleman." She grabbed a piece of straw and tore it down lengthwise. "That is a strange realization. But…I suspect he was not ordinary as a young man."

"Mr. Bennet? I doubt it. But I am not ordinary either, I would not have enjoyed myself with odd company, and I had plenty of time to say goodbye to my old friends in Derbyshire. I quite prefer the company of you and Georgie."

"Aren't young gentlemen supposed to be constantly running attendance on young ladies?"

"I _have_ been constantly on attendance to a pair of very pretty young ladies."

Elizabeth giggled and blushed, looking rather pleased by his statement. Darcy knew that at her age it was important to be thought of as nearly an adult. He suspected she had _hoped_ he would say something like that.

He added, "There are two types of young ladies: those who wish to marry me because I am a Darcy, and those who snub me because I'm a second son. You and Georgiana are the only females I can properly stand."

"Oh!" Lizzy bit her lip and a bright smile shined at him. "You place me in the same category as Georgie."

"Did not you and she declare yourselves to be sisters, forever and ever I believe. With pomp and a formal ceremony of adoption."

"We did, and we are. It is delightfully clever of you to recognize the substance of our sisterhood."

Darcy inclined his head.

"I do fear that your division of women shows a low opinion of my sex in general. Now, I know from Mama, it is the gentlemen who ought be despised." She bit her lip again, in a kittenish mannerism, and grinned at him.

"So you take you opinions from your mother?"

Lizzy laughed. " _That_ sounds as though you meant to insult her."

"I did not claim she is wrong to despise gentlemen as a group, merely that it is odd to hear _you_ uncritically adopt such an opinion."

"Oh. I see what you mean to say. You think I am cleverer than my mother. I'll not disagree, but it still is not nice for you to say that about her."

"I meant to imply that you are stubborn and difficult to teach."

"Aha! But you like me for all that. Which makes me wonder at your expressed distaste for the rest of my gender. I have it on a good authority, though she is an authority I am too stubborn to learn from, that men all want docile tractable young ladies like my dear Jane."

Darcy grimaced. "Girls are usually idiots. Bland, boring, bothersome."

"And you say that after I speak of Jane. I'll not let you insult her like my mother. I do like _her_."

"Lizzy, I insulted _you_."

Elizabeth laughed merrily. "Now, now, take that back about Jane. She is a sweet girl, and almost compulsively kind."

"I completely agree. Very sweet."

" _You_ watched her quite close that first night you were here."

"And not much since, I hope. Your sister is _very_ pretty; you will be too, just as beautiful." Lizzy blushed at that and beamed at him. It was odd to think of his and Georgie's learned and argumentative Lizzy being vain of her looks in a few years. "However, I believe your mother made it clear she hopes for greater things from your sister than a mere captain, even if he is the nephew of an earl."

"Nonsense. Jane is so sweet that you found her — what did you say? Bland, boring, bothersome. Though I only accept the bland and boring. Jane could never be bothersome. Never!"

"Of course not. She is too sweet to bother anyone. I only meant the first two to apply to your lovely sister."

Lizzy hit him on the arm. "One should not say such things. That is why Jane would be entirely wrong for you, and vice versa."

Darcy theatrically rubbed his arm and grinned at Lizzy. "That hurt. I shall be the laughing stock of my regiment when I arrive, crippled by a little girl."

"Well, you should not have said my sister was bland and boring."

"I merely agreed with you. It is quite hypocritical for you to attack me under such a circumstance."

"No, for I merely spoke to test your rudeness. And you were very rude." Elizabeth hit him on the arm again, much harder this time. "That is for thinking my sister was bland, even though it is true she is incapable of thinking ill of the ill, laughing at the ridiculous in the ridiculous, or holding a negative opinion of anyone. It is quite strange — I would not wish to be like her, but it is good that there is such a person in this wide, cynical world."

"This wide, cynical world?"

Elizabeth giggled at his expression.

"I too salute your sister for her ability to think well of the ill, and humorlessly of the humorous—"

"That is not how I put it."

"And her complete lack of rancor. However, I prefer salt, peppers and spiced wines, even if they are not wholesome."

"Ah. So you meant Jane is _too_ wholesome for your taste. I now understand. That is not a _very_ rude thing to say — for the sake of clarity, I wish to specify: I do not apologize for striking you."

"Of course not. That second time _did_ hurt."

Elizabeth screwed her face up into a mock sympathetic expression. "And…and you shall now be unable to show your face in the officer's mess, since you were defeated in honorable combat by a girl not yet fifteen?"

Darcy laughed. "Don't ever think you must be like Miss Bennet. _I_ admire greatly how you express your opinions and think and study. You are different and passionate. I cannot stand to be in a room with a woman who has nothing on her mind but fashion and stratagems to impress a wellborn gentleman. You do not care what I think."

"I do!" Elizabeth's protest was strident and instinctive.

They both laughed.

"You only care what I think," Darcy said, "because you think highly of my cleverness — which you ought — and thus feel the pleasure keenly when you make me admit to being wrong."

"Perhaps." Elizabeth bit her lip and beamed at him. "You though, have the great virtue of being able to admit when you are wrong."

The cat returned, and plopped himself into Elizabeth's lap. He looked at Darcy and then rolled over to present his belly to be rubbed again. Elizabeth obediently buried her hands into his fur. Darcy cautiously took hold of the cat's foot, and rubbed his thumb over the soft pad of its toes.

Elizabeth glowed at him. "You must promise to write me as well as Georgiana. I shall depend upon it."

Darcy almost immediately agreed, but then looking at her, he realized that the little girl who had run about the galleries and exhibitions of France and Italy with Georgiana was almost grown into a young woman. He shook his head. "You are already fourteen. You shall come out in another two or three years, I imagine. It will hardly be proper—"

"Oh! Nonsense, I do not care. Remember, we are family since Georgie and I are sisters. _You_ admitted to the relationship. You _know_ Papa will not mind. Write letters which _pretend_ to be for him, and I shall write back in the same way. Or we can write through Georgiana. I am _completely_ determined we will write."

"Completely, are you?"

"Completely, absolutely, _in toto_. We _shall_ write, Captain Darcy, or else I will make myself into a monster far more frightening than those lions that you shall fend off in India."

Really pleased by Lizzy's determination, Darcy threw his hands up and said, pretending to be annoyed, "Well, if you shall turn into a giant man eating cat otherwise, I suppose I must write to you. Quite often too. It would disappoint Georgiana greatly if her sister turned into a furred monster."

He grinned at her, and Elizabeth grinned back delightedly. "Thank you, thank you. I was worried you would not agree to write. I've been thinking how best to demand it for several days."

"You only needed to threaten me with a mysterious transformation."

There was something in his mind which very much liked the idea of writing letters to her. She was very young _now_ but she would be an adult in four or five years when he returned. It was an idle thought.

He just hoped she would to herself be true and never become like Jane and every other well-bred gentlewoman.

Darcy said, "I truly shall depend on your letters. I will."

Elizabeth bit her lip and grinned at him and pushed away the squawking cat. She tightly embraced Darcy.


	2. Chapter 2

September 1780

Kollipur, Madras Presidency

The thirst woke him.

Darcy's tongue was dry. He compulsively swallowed. His throat was raw. There was no saliva in his mouth. Darcy instinctively reached down to grab his canteen, but it was missing. His face burned and burned. He breathed shallowly and the unending pain grew.

It felt like his face was on fire, but Darcy could see no flames when he opened his eyes. He brushed his hand against his cheek.

Oh. That was a mistake. Oh.

For half a minute Darcy lost everything but the sensation of pain radiating from his face.

Slowly he realized the back of his head also ached from a bump and there were lesser burns radiating along his left arm. Darcy remembered nothing of how he'd gotten here. He tried to think. He recalled himself penning a letter to Lizzy and Georgiana which described how his regiment was to march out to join with General Munro's force so they could face Hyder's horde together.

Then marching. Weeks of marching. A long pause for the repair of a bridge washed out by the monsoon. He had been able to send another letter by runner then. The letter had mentioned none of his worry that they had delayed too long and would become trapped far away from uniting with Munro. Battles and charges. Hyder's cavalry attacked them and made the baggage train scatter. The artillery cut into their troops as they kept to formation and marched away. He was part of a contingent who charged their lines to disperse the enemy guns. He killed two men in that fight. Then when they'd drawn up into a square to ward off further attacks, Hyder sent his rockets into their lines.

Darcy could feel that he'd hit his head hard, and he could not recall what happened next. Darcy reached up and brushed his hand along his cheek far more cautiously this time.

There were huge blisters around his face that burned with greater intensity at the slightest touch. There was some sticky fluid all around the wound. Darcy remembered he was terribly thirsty and his throat burned, all the way up and down the neck. He licked his chapped lips. Behind his cheekbone in the middle of the burn it didn't hurt. There was only an uncomfortable pressure in an area the size of a shilling. Darcy knew that with serious burns, it was _worse_ when they did not hurt.

It was well past afternoon. Darcy turned his head from side to side. Not only was his canteen missing, but so were his pants and coat. He'd been looted and left in his drawers and a dirty inner shirt.

There were piles of bodies, and the remains of the destroyed wagons.

Now he remembered. One of Hyder's rockets streaked towards the artillery's ammunition wagon. Then a bright flash. He must have been knocked over by the explosion. All that was left of the wagon were the huge stone wheels, now black. Bits of fabric from the canvas which protected the barrels of powder from the rain were scattered here and there, too damaged for the looters. The scent of gunpowder sat heavy in the air still.

There were dozens of bodies, both white and brown.

Men groaned. Someone called out for water. Darcy's throat flared in pain again at the reminder. He studied himself and moved his legs. He was sore all over but did not seem to have taken a wound more serious than the burn in his face.

Each time he took a breath the skin around his face moved and pain became worse. He carefully felt around his face again, avoiding the numb patch in the center. The bottom of his hair had been burnt off, and the line of blisters extended to the edge of his ear.

Darcy forced himself to stand. Two hundred feet away there was a pond with tall leafy trees surrounding it.

It was a nightmarish scene, like those painted by Bosch he'd seen on his tour of the continent. All of the bodies had been stripped down to their undershirts and drawers. Buzzards had gathered, picking at the dead, and a wolf dragged at a man's leg on the edge of the field.

Darcy stumbled forward. Sitting tall on a horse was one of Hyder's soldiers. Darcy hoped he would be ignored, but he was too thirsty to care. The man saw Darcy stumbling over a body, but he did not move, instead holding his reins tightly as the horse stamped and munched the tall grasses.

More than a dozen bodies were flopped in the shallow pond and the water had a reddish tint. Caring nothing for that, Darcy plunged his hands in and drank deeply. He then splashed the water over his head and face. It did little to cool the burning pain.

Stumbling against the trunk of a tree Darcy sat down and stopped moving. He hurt too much to try walking the fifteen remaining miles to Conjeveram where General Munro's army was. Besides the sky was quickly darkening into night.

Darcy was too tired to stay awake, but his face's endless burning disturbed any sleep he might have. The wound leaked a thin fluid and it had swollen. Each time his thirst drove him to drink it hurt to swallow, and he tried pouring the water towards the opposite side of his face. Once some water got caught in his throat and led to a minute of coughing that made him nearly faint as the pain went through his face.

Around midnight there was a clap of thunder and repeated flashes of lightning. Then the heavens opened and almost warm water drenched him. When the storm ended Darcy's thin clothes dried quickly.

An hour later, when the thin sliver of the moon stood high above them, two men crawled to the pond and splashed into it in the dark. One swore quietly in what Darcy thought was English.

Darcy wished he had a weapon, in case they were enemies, but he cried out anyways, "Halloo. Tally Ho. Are you Englishmen?"

His quartermaster, Sergeant Tomlinson, called out, "Captain Darcy, you're alive yet?"

"Unless I speak from past the grave."

A junior officer, Ensign Dick, exclaimed, "Is it just you, Captain?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were near the wagons when they were blown up."

"I was blown unconscious. What happened afterwards?"

Ensign Dick said, "We held them off again and again, some seven times. It was glorious. But there were too many of them."

Tomlinson snorted in the darkness at the lad's enthusiasm. "We lost. That's all there is to it. I've an awful cut in the neck that when I jostle it, it hurts so bad I wish I'd died. I need to hold my head to keep it from flopping over."

"At least you are alive."

"For now."

"Can you walk?"

"A little. It hurts."

"We'll march to Conjeveram soon as it is light. Hopefully they won't pay any attention to three wounded men."

The other two men settled against trees near Darcy. They tried to sleep while waiting for the dawn. Darcy slipped in and out of his shallow pained sleep.

When the sun rose the water was bloodier and muddier than the day before. They still drank deeply as the birds and insects chirped greeting to the sun.

Ensign Dick had been shot through the arm, but the bullet had gone through the muscle without touching the bone, so he had good hope for recovery. He also had a slash across his cheek and the other arm from the melee fighting that had occurred.

Darcy and Ensign Dick took a torn but unlooted robe from one of the Hindu bodies, leaving it naked, and fashioned a sling for Dick's arm.

Tomlinson sat holding his head in his hands so it would stay in place. He'd received a clean cut, so the odds were good he'd avoid serious infection, but the sword had sawed through the tendons on one side of his neck, and Darcy knew that even if he got proper treatment his head would always tilt in the other direction and he would never be able to properly turn it around again.

"Tomlinson, how does my burn look?"

He stared critically. "Bad, but I've seen worse."

Darcy chivvied Tomlinson and Dick to stand. Ensign Dick was eager to start, but Tomlinson bit off a scream after he stood.

Darcy placed a careful hand on the Sergeant's arm.

"It's just…only when it gets shaken. I'll manage, Captain. To Conjeveram!"

They marched off. Each time they went over a gully or when the ground was littered with rocks, Tomlinson would groan and grit his teeth as he carefully stepped through it. They made slow going and the morning mists slowly dissipated. Darcy knew he and Dick could travel much quicker, but he'd not leave Tomlinson behind while the soldier still could walk.

After they'd gone about a mile and a half a troop of Hyder Ali's cavalry came down the road and stopped them. The captain of the group wore a large flowing white robe and turban, with a huge red feather sweeping more than a foot out of his wide cap.

Darcy begged in a mixture of halting Urdu and fluent French for the officer to let them continue on their way, as they were already defeated and harmless. "We only want to reach Conjeveram."

"Conjeveram? _Notre_. We have it. You my prisoners." He gestured to one of his men and said in the language of the local Hindus, "Lead them to the Sultan's camp."

They were given two guards. As they walked along they heard an Englishman in the wilderness to the side of the road begging for help and water. But when Darcy tried to stop, one of the guards poked him in the back with his bayoneted musket and said, "No. No."

Darcy tried to argue and pantomimed pouring water into the mouth, but the guard pushed him hard enough to break the skin with the dull edge of his bayonet. Darcy gave up and let the guard march him away. He was too tired and hurt to try seizing the weapons, and as likely as not Tomlinson and Dick would be killed along with him if he tried. Perhaps some other group would be kinder.

As they marched Darcy was terribly thirsty again. His burn continued to drip that thin sticky liquid. After a mile they needed to cross a muddy flood channel that had etched its way across the road. Darcy was still angry about the men left behind, and he did not pay attention to Tomlinson until the soldier stumbled and screamed.

Darcy rushed back to help him rise, but he pushed Darcy away. "Damn, damn, damn. Just let me die. I won't get up again. I won't."

The guard gestured his musket in their direction. "Up, up, up."

Darcy said, "I'm not going to leave you behind."

"I will die here. I've accepted it. I can't handle the pain."

" _You_ _will not die here_. Tomlinson, you shall see England again. I order you to survive. Now up!"

Darcy took his arm to steady him, and with a groan Tomlinson stood. Ensign Dick took his other arm. As they walked up the high side of the flood ditch, Tomlinson's foot caught again and he screamed again; this time just the sound echoed next to Darcy's ear.

"I want to die. Just let the pain stop."

Darcy pulled him forward onto the even ground again. "No. We are Englishmen and soldiers. We do not give up. By God, man, you will march."

Tomlinson breathed shallowly. "Did you know I was conscripted for thievery? Penalty when I was caught. They thought they were kind by not transporting me, and the colonies had just rebelled."

They started to walk forward along the more even ground, cautiously. "I thought you may have had such a past from how skilled you were at finding our supplies so cheap."

Tomlinson smiled thinly. "You were a good captain, not pocketing half the company's money. You made sure everything was provided for us."

They followed the guards. Tomlinson winced with every step.

They marched on through the hot muggy day. Birds and insects fluttered about. The ever present mosquitos hovered about them. The trees were heavy with green leaves. It was monsoon season so everything was sprouting. The guards' initial cautiousness faded, and they fed their prisoners handfuls of rice soaked in warm water and they helped Tomlinson drink directly out of their canteens. There was a harsh beauty to this land, and the sun seemed larger than it did in Europe.

Late in the afternoon they at last stumbled into Hyder's camp. Darcy had walked next to Tomlinson the whole way, helping over rough ground, and he cajoled the sergeant into continuing each time Tomlinson wanted to stop.

Hordes of people ran about. On the edge of the camp were tents surrounded by scantily clad dark-skinned girls, wearing bright colored saris that didn't cover one of their breasts. There were dozens of merchants offering luscious fruits, brightly colored textiles, guns, knives, shoes and all manner of other goods to Hyder's soldiers. Darcy knew his own regiment had been followed on its march by more camp followers than soldiers. Of the hundred thousand men Hyder Ally had marched towards Madras, at most a third were armed.

The army had not been there long enough for the smell of sewage and human detritus to permeate the area. They would probably move before it became very bad, as this many men could not feed off the countryside. Already the carts constantly entering the camp were bringing everything the locals would sell for a ten-mile radius.

The guards marched them through the camp into the center. Here the tents had been set up with some effort for regularity. There was a large round pavilion hung with a rich red and white fabric. A throne stood in its middle and Hyder Ally sat cross-legged on the golden dais, looking out over his courtiers. He wore a huge round turban that tripled the size of his head, and he had a fine white mustache that hung out several inches.

Next to his pavilion, nearly a hundred Englishmen were deposited in the open sun around a small tent. Many men moaned in pain. Darcy was pushed into the group, which had a single man with a long dark black mustache desultorily guarding them.

Darcy gratefully collapsed against the ground and refused to move even though the sun beat down on him. There was no shelter. The sand burned, and the heat made his blistered left hand flinch away. The officers around him gave him what news they had; a half dozen staff officers, including Colonel Baille were in the tent. Colonel Baille was seriously wounded, but likely to live.

Darcy replied with his story.

Time passed.

The sun beat down on his injured face. He could feel it burn at the blisters, but still felt nothing in the middle. His throat flamed and flamed.

They had no water.

Darcy stood and begged the guard for water, not looking at the large scimitar which rested on his back.

"No. No water. Die. You we shall kill." The man pantomimed stuffing something into his mouth. "Shit." He laughed and said, "We…um…" He pretended to feed himself with his hands again. "You make eat shit."

"I beg you. Water. Water. A little water."

The man laughed again and smacked him on the head. Darcy had already been weakened by the day, and he went to the ground, grinding the dirt into his burnt face.

The sudden pain made him light headed and it was as though a light flashed in front of him as Darcy fought to stop the screams. After a minute the pain resided to just a horrific throbbing.

Darcy did not try again. He would remain thirsty and hope they would be given water at some point. The Englishmen talked desultorily to each other in whispers, as the guard shouted at them if they spoke in a loud voice.

The sun beat down on him. The skin on his exposed arms had turned a bright red, and Darcy flipped them over to get a more even roast. One should always cook the meat equally on both sides.

He and Tomlinson leaned against each other, back to back. The hard ground made his bottom numb and it tingled, but he hurt too much to be willing to jostle himself by trying to move. Tomlinson said, "Thank you, Captain, I would have died out there if not for you."

"Nonsense. You were the one who walked here."

"I would have sat there till they shot me without you."

Hours passed with only the pain in his face and repetitive conversations to distract him from the boredom. None of the officers had any cards. A couple of men played a game of checkers with twigs versus pebbles. Darcy would have watched, but it hurt too much to move. He was not only thirsty, but also hungry.

Every so often an Indian soldier strode down the road through the camp, swinging a white severed head by the hair. Someone who fluently spoke Urdu said that the bounty for a live European was twice that for a head. The heads were displayed to Hyder Ally who, as a rare kindness, kept his collection out of the sight of the British captives. Darcy felt a sick shock each time he recognized the bloodless distorted features of a friend.

One of the British soldiers had been made to carry two of the heads before he was thrown in with the group of prisoners. He told them one had been Colonel Fletcher's, the commander of the highlander detachment which had joined them a few days earlier. Darcy wondered what would happen after their defeat. Munro still had a substantial army, and he did not think that even this army could take Madras if its defenses were well manned. The harbor would always have supplies unless the French fleet in the Indian ocean became dominant.

Flies gathered in thick clouds, sitting on the wounded. Darcy stopped waving his hand to keep them away, because one time he accidentally slapped his face to get rid of a fly sitting on a blister. He tried to convince himself that he would be safe now. Even though he was a despot, Hyder Ally would wish to ransom the British prisoners, after the war if not sooner. Despite their loss, England's empire was still robust and would survive. He would see Pemberley and Georgiana and Lizzy and everyone else who was in England again.

Water. He needed water.

A thundercloud was pushed by the wind and the sky became almost suddenly dark grey. With flashing lightning and rolling thunder, it dumped much wanted water and rain over them. Being soaked through and forced to sit nearly naked in the rain for the length of the shower was preferable to the beating sun. Darcy held his mouth and hands open and almost quenched his thirst. By the time the clouds were driven away evening was setting and it was not so painfully hot anymore.

Darcy's thirst returned and his face throbbed. It had begun to hurt worse over the course of the afternoon. He hoped it was just the sun beating on it. To distract himself from anxiety, Darcy thought of the letters, now looted and lost, he'd received from Georgiana and Lizzy. He wished there was some way he could write a letter to them. Lizzy was so much sharper than Georgiana. He would never be able to hide how scared he was from her, but she wouldn't tell Georgie.

When the sun began to set, a French officer with his arm in a sling visited them. "Pardon, pardon. _Mon dieu_ ," he exclaimed at seeing the nearly naked Europeans lying and groaning with their untreated wounds. One man had died since being deposited on the ground. "I will do what I can… _vous aider_. But Hyder is mad. _Tres_ mad. _Mon dieu_." He hurried into Colonel Baille's tent.

Twenty minutes later the French officer left the tent and walked to the large pavilion where Hyder Ally sat.

The sun set behind the horizon. It grew darker. It was just a dim reddish light. Then the sun was gone and nothing sat in the sky but the stars and the rising moon. Lanterns and torches burned around the camp, but there were none for the English.

The French officer returned leading a dozen porters who distributed pillows and water to the soldiers. Darcy almost cried with relief as he was able to drink deeply and rest his head comfortably.

The French officer spoke once more to Colonel Baille. This war was fought between the Imperial ambitions of the French king and the British king. Yet, once they were wounded and captured, their fellow Christians became their greatest friends.

During the night it rained again.

After the grueling march and the exhaustion of barely sleeping the previous night, Darcy slept on the pillow and fell into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of death and his burning face.

The English prisoners were aroused at dawn the next morning. Hyder Ally had decided to move his camp to the west, and those of the prisoners who could walk were forced to do so again while the others were placed on uncovered stretchers. Many of the men had turned as red as their stolen uniforms from exposure to the sun and their skin blistered.

Tomlinson sat holding his head and began to weep. "Not again. No. I won't survive it. Not another march. I can't."

Several dozen small dark-skinned porters were tossing the English soldiers too badly wounded to walk onto stretchers. However, it was clear from looking at him that Tomlinson's wound was to his neck, and he sat up easily, so they ignored him.

The soldiers started poking the still sitting Englishmen with their swords. When Tomlinson did not stand, the soldier brought his foot back to kick him. Darcy pushed the man away. The soldier snarled at Darcy and punched him in the chest repeatedly, being too short to strike higher. Darcy backed away when he threatened him with a sword. "Please, just allow me to help my man stand. A moment. I beg you, a moment."

When the soldier nodded, Darcy knelt next to Tomlinson. The sergeant grimaced. "I know, Captain."

Darcy said, "I'll pull you up on three. One, two, three."

Tomlinson clenched his jaw as he stood and then closed his eyes for a moment. The two men then joined the line of prisoners who marched next to the stretchers. As they did Darcy felt a surge of pride in his countrymen and in his quartermaster return. They may be defeated, but they were still men of England.

This day was worse than the last. The pain in Darcy's face constantly sat in his mind as an unending ache, and nothing he could do let him stop thinking about it. He tried to sing Rule Britannia, but the guards refused to allow it, and his face hurt too much at the motions required to sing. He thought about England. He remembered embracing Stanley the day he left Pemberley. His father's last words to him. Little Lizzy laughing as she rubbed a cat against her face. The day had a dreamlike detached quality, and Darcy knew he was feverish. He eagerly drank water every opportunity they were given. Tomlinson staggered along with a pained grimace, but he kept moving without need to be encouraged.

At last, a few hours after noon, the group reached Hyder's new camp. All the officers of the French battalion which had fought with Hyder were at this camp, and they gathered themselves in their white coats to greet the British. The French soldiers took off their tri-cornered hats to salute their defeated foe.

Like the previous day, the British soldiers were given a single tent where Colonel Baille and a few other officers could be lodged, but the rest were left on the open ground. Darcy kept an eye on Tomlinson who sat without speaking on the hard ground.

About a half hour after they arrived, the leader of the French battalion arrived with his two surgeons and stores of food and clothing which he distributed amongst the British soldiers before speaking to Colonel Baille. The two surgeons went amongst the wounded, dressing their wounds and performing several amputations.

While he waited for his turn, Darcy gratefully put on a pair of pants and a coat, both of which almost fit, though they were a little too short. He was nauseous but still eagerly ate the cheese and bread. He was able to wash it down with a tasty wine.

For several minutes the British were too engaged in eating a real meal at last to speak with each other, but soon everyone in the camp knew that Colonel Baille had given the French Captain Pimoran a bill the company would pay in Madras and had received in exchange a substantial sum of money to be distributed to allow the soldiers to purchase their necessaries.

At last the surgeon reached Darcy. Darcy greeted him in French, and the two spoke easily. The surgeon's name was Monsieur Castro. He was from an area around Marseille Darcy had seen on his tour before going into Italy.

The surgeon held Darcy's head in the fading sunlight and examined his face from each direction.

"It is a bad burn. I wish it had been tended immediately. Where it blistered I think it best to be left alone, but the worst area needs dressing. I fear it is infected. You already are a little feverish."

"I have felt ill all day."

"You probably shall not die, but God chooses. Do not worry yourself too greatly — you are young, and many more men recover from such things than do not. But pray it does not turn gangrenous." Monsieur Castro laughed. "Perhaps you should seek the intervention of our Lady Mary. Protestant prayers have not brought you luck."

Monsieur Castro smeared a paste of butter over Darcy's burn. He'd moved too quickly for comfort, but though the paste terribly hurt while being applied, afterwards his face felt cool and the throbbing was almost tolerable. Darcy smiled his thanks, and then winced at the pain in his cheeks.

Then the surgeon sutured the slice on Tomlinson's neck together, leaving the binding loose enough for the wound to drain. With the cloth they had been provided and a belt he stole from another French soldier, he made a sort of sling that allowed Tomlinson to keep his head almost completely still while walking or sitting.

Once they treated the English, the French officers left to many cries of "Thank you" and " _Merci beaucoup_."

It was strange that when Darcy imagined writing a letter home to describe how kindly he'd been treated by the French, it was Lizzy, not Georgiana or Stanley, whom he imagined writing to. Despite how Georgiana thought of her, she was certainly not _Darcy's_ sister. But he had known her for many years now, and the letters he'd received from her showed a brilliant sensibility and cleverness. And she _had_ made him solemnly promise to write to her.

The French officers had brought several additional tents that were erected and provided shelter from the evening showers for the British soldiers. Darcy fell asleep quickly, but his dreams were tormented by memories of the explosion and men dying in front of him. He remembered the man he had killed with his sword when he had charged the enemy's artillery the day before their regiment was destroyed. He had been just a boy with a wispy mustache and wide staring eyes.

When Darcy woke he felt sicker than he ever had before. He turned over on his side and uncontrollably vomited onto the sand. His skin felt uncomfortable all over, and a bright red rash had developed on his arms and legs. His injury burned as it had before, but so did the rest of his face. He touched his forehead, and it felt hot and swollen.

During the night Lieutenant Cotton had died.

Despite the shade provided by the tent, the day was hot and muggy. Most of the other officers enjoyed the availability of better food and wine. However, Darcy was only able to drink a little water. He stripped off his new shirt as it become uncomfortable against his skin. Streaks of red spread hour by hour along his arms and legs.

Darcy shivered despite the heat. Was he going to die? He was too young. He wanted to see England again, and his dear people. A different part of his brain dreamily laughed at the absurdity of going to war and fearing death. His hopes had nothing to do with it.

His stomach ached with more fear than he'd ever felt before battle. This terror about whether the poisons in his body would grow and kill him was so much worse than a fear of other men who he could face with cleverness and skill.

An hour past midday the French surgeons returned to change the dressings on the patient's wounds and observe the progression of their condition.

The surgeon shook his head and clucked unhappily at Darcy's condition. He took from his medical bag a scalpel that had turned rusty from the humidity of India and said in a sympathetic voice, "This shall hurt. I must debride your wound."

"Debride?"

"Remove the dead tissue that is in your wound. We believe it reduces infection and will allow the wound to drain more easily."

"I am already infected."

"Yes — I hope to keep it from turning gangrenous. If that were to happen on your face, so close to the brain cavity, you would certainly die."

Darcy clenched his teeth tightly and breathed slowly through his nose as the dead skin on his cheek was cut away. Creamy colored pus and blood drained out. The surgeon had Darcy hold a cotton bandage against his face to absorb the blood.

"Shall I die?"

"You are suffering from St. Martin's Fire. Erysipelas. From the spread to your arms, it is a serious case. I do not know — even as advanced as your illness is, more people recover from such cases than die, though often they recur. From the color of the drainage there is no sign of gangrene. It is a good healing pus. You may die or you may live. God determines. Above all ensure you have enough water to drink and try to eat more food. But the water is most important."

Darcy suddenly felt a terror of never being able to send another letter to those he loved. "Will you send word to my family of my fate? And Lizzy. If I die I wish them to know I faced my end bravely."

"Monsieur Darcy. I will send word to them — but if the worst comes to pass, they shall not need to hear from me that you faced your end with dignity. You are such a man that all who know you would expect you to face the greatest extremity well."

Darcy licked at his swollen lips. "My brother and sister live at Pemberley in Derbyshire, and my brother's Christian name is Stanley. Also, Lizzy, her father is Mr. Thomas Bennet, of Longbourn in Hertfordshire. You must send any letter to him."

The Monsieur Castro smiled. "Is this Lizzy, ah, _ton amour_?"

"No, no — she is too young. She and my sister have decided they are sisters, and I promised to write her. She is a dear friend."

"She cannot be so young as when you left. There is some sensibility in you when you think of her."

Darcy blushed but shook his head; she was now past fifteen and though still very young, there were many girls who married at that age. If he lived to see England and Lizzy again, she would be far older and likely married. A melancholy for an instant dominated Darcy's fear of death.

"Please, send word to her father."

"I shall. But, Monsieur Darcy, my dear hope is that I shall write _her_ to say that you are healthy and recovered from your injuries."

For the rest of the day and for most of the night Tomlinson sat near Darcy and kept him supplied with water and his face cool and wet. The next morning the prisoners were sent away from the camp towards a dungeon in Hyder's capital.

The seriously wounded were loaded into carts. Darcy shuddered with his fever and could barely stand. However, Tomlinson's wound had not become seriously infected and with the neck brace he could walk.

The wounded were picked up and unceremoniously stuffed almost atop each other into open bamboo carts called doolies that were three feet wide and about four long. There were six to eight men in each of the carts, and they were unable to stretch out or sit down properly.

When the man stuffed next to Darcy tried to stretch, he pushed his head against Darcy's face, pressing against the blisters. They were carried for some hours. Darcy was again very thirsty, but all requests for water were refused. He was in a dream state where the pain in his throat and the pain in his face were constantly present. When the time came to break for lunch the doolies were placed in the open sun by the porters who sat shaded beneath the broad leafy local trees and laughed and called insults at the Englishmen.

Even though the soldiers able to walk were in a separate column, Tomlinson attached himself to the group with the carts, and though he could not move the doolie into the shade, he spent the lunch hour making sure Darcy and his companions received all of the water they could drink. Though it quieted the burn in Darcy's throat, he became delirious and was barely aware of what happened. His fever ran very hot.

Later, all he remembered from that day was the discomfort of being crowded and the endless burn and his thirsty throat. It seemed as though at one moment he was tossed into the doolie, and the next he was thrown out of it onto the hard ground.

The rash now covered all of his arms and legs. They were given no bedding or cover, and it rained. Darcy felt that his nose had swelled to nearly twice its normal size. Tomlinson sat next to him, again keeping his face cool and giving him water. He forced Darcy to eat the soaked rice they were given and used the funds that had been distributed to purchase some cheese and yogurt for him.

Darcy expected to die as he lay on the hard ground with a pile of leaves and a bunched up coat under his head. Such things happened. He now felt calm and accepting, the way his father had been. His only worry was for those he cared for. Stanley would be well, but he worried for his shy little sister. Her letters had proclaimed her unhappy at the school. But she would have Lizzy, at least. They would keep his memory safe in a small part of their hearts. Darcy made himself think of Elizabeth and Georgiana so that his last thoughts would be pleasant. He had vivid dreams of Elizabeth nursing him with cold hands. She cried and begged him to live while she kissed his forehead.

A few hours after midnight, when the waxing moon had almost set, an artillery officer, Captain Jones, stood and shouted and raved. He continued for twenty minutes before he had a seizure and died.

Darcy was only partly aware when he was picked up the next morning and placed in a doolie. The day repeated much like the previous, except as the porters had tired of tormenting their prisoners, the Englishmen were set in the shade during lunch.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but when he was placed on the ground that night, Darcy fancied that he felt less sick. He fell into an actual sleep and was only woken at dawn by the call of the porters. He was now fully aware that Tomlinson was attending him and thanked him profusely.

Several men had died during the night. Darcy managed to stagger with help from Tomlinson to where the four bodies were thrown into a nearby hole. The natives allowed the British a few minutes for the ceremony where an officer spoke the half-remembered words from the funeral rites over the bodies. They then threw a little dirt to cover them. It would not be enough to keep the bodies from later being dug up by wild animals.

Over the course of the day Darcy became certain he was recovering. The bright red rash first cooled, and then the skin turned leathery and brown. The aches and chills left Darcy, and he was aware of his surroundings. He still felt weak and somewhat sick.

At about three o'clock they arrived at their destination. The officers and common soldiers were separated without Darcy having an opportunity to do more than shake Tomlinson's hand in parting. He knew that without Tomlinson's care he would have died. They were unceremoniously pushed into a large room that was crowded once they all were stretched out in it. One man walked into their dungeon under his own power, but fell down dead the instant he crossed under the door frame.

Darcy ate the rice with oil they were provided with an eager appetite for the first time in three days. He relaxed against one of the walls and fell asleep. When he woke he was still in pain and weak, but felt none of the fevered malaise. Some angel had watched over him and protected him.

* * *

 **AN: So here it is at last. Sorry for the delay in publishing this here, I made a mistake when trying to remove Colonel Darcy from automatic Kindle Unlimited enrollment (ie I either thought I had, and forgot, or didn't save changes), so it spent an extra three months in the program. Which was probably profitable for me.**

 **Anyways, better late than never...**

 **This is of course already published at Amazon, and is in the process of publishing at other ebook retailers, so if you are impatient or want to support me, go ahead and purchase it. I also paid to have an audiobook of Colonel Darcy made, which I think is super cool and a very different experience. So if you ever wanted to listen to an audio version of a fan fic, here is a chance to use one of your audible credits for it - also if you don't use Audible, I personally have found that I use audiobooks in places and times that I can't read a normal book, like while doing chores or taking a walk, and that I've really enjoyed having my subscription. So maybe you should try it out.**

 **That is of course a completely self interested suggestion, since should someone use their first credit with a new audible subscription to buy my book, I will get a bunch of extra money. But I really _do_ like having a bunch of audiobooks.**

 **So I hope you all enjoy the ride!**


	3. Chapter 3

June 1781

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Elizabeth Bennet stared at the roof of her room for ten minutes when she woke the morning of her sixteenth birthday. Georgiana was at Longbourn with her, and she was still so broken up over Fitzwilliam's death that it would be impossible to celebrate. Elizabeth didn't want to celebrate either.

A few months previously they learned Fitzwilliam had almost certainly been killed in a dreadful battle where the barbarous Mohammedan sultan trapped and massacred half the British army in the south of India.

Elizabeth had never hated anyone before, but she hated Hyder Ally. She hoped he died miserably, since he'd killed her dear friend.

Stanley had not even notified Georgiana about Fitzwilliam's death until a week after he'd received word of the battle, leaving both Elizabeth and Georgiana to learn from the newspapers that Fitzwilliam's regiment had been destroyed. Georgiana's letters to Elizabeth became teary and desperately sad. The matrons at her school were awful, and while they ensured she wore the proper mourning clothes, they didn't let Georgiana have a break from her studies and punished her for crying too often.

It was arranged for Georgiana to spend almost her whole vacation with Elizabeth, since Stanley had no interest in having his sister with him, but he was willing to let Georgiana choose where to spend the vacation. When Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth retrieved Georgiana and her maid from the school, she had been thin and red eyed. It brought all of Elizabeth's grief back.

It was as though part of her own family had died.

They cried together in the carriage while Papa joined them with his hurt eyes. He had liked Fitzwilliam greatly also. During the weeks of her visit, Elizabeth had worn dark lavender dresses with Georgiana's black, and they obsessively talked about Fitzwilliam and how they missed him. But they couldn't let themselves stay unhappy forever. Fitzwilliam watched them from heaven, and he would get that annoying superior look in his eyes if they were too morose for too long.

The two girls read and reread the last letter they had received from Fitzwilliam, which talked about how his regiment had set off to join the rest of the British Army in the Madras presidency, so they could face together the massive force of a hundred thousand men Hyder Ally had led over the hills.

After a week Georgie stopped crying every day, and they remembered the happy things about her brother. The way he stood tall and handsome. The way he always listened to Georgiana play, how he tweaked both of their noses. Elizabeth remembered how he had almost treated her as an adult during that last leave. The way he had steadily written to both her and Georgiana.

Elizabeth's birthday party would be a quiet day with only Charlotte and a few female friends from around the neighborhood. Mrs. Bennet wanted Elizabeth to have a large party for her coming out, as she had already delayed through her fifteenth year. However, as Georgiana was Elizabeth's guest, and she definitely was not out yet, and in mourning anyways, that was impossible.

However, after she and Georgie returned from their morning walk, the post was brought in right after they had sat down to breakfast.

A letter written in French with a Hanoverian postmark completely changed the complexion of their feelings for the day:

To Mr. Bennet of Longbourn

Dear Sir,

I am a surgeon serving in a regiment of French infantry stationed out of Pondicherry. I am writing this to inform you that as of November 19, 1780, a young man who I understand you to be well acquainted with, Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy of Colonel Baille's regiment, is in good health and imprisoned in Hyder Ali's capital of Seringapatam.

Though we are public enemies, when the fight is done, all Christians in such distant lands naturally become friends banded together by our shared customs and the disdain the natives feel towards us all. Following the late battle near Kollipur, many English soldiers were captured. The officers of my regiment strove to do as much as possible to relieve the distressed situation of your countrymen, conscious that they would do likewise for us had the turn of fortune in battle gone differently.

Captain Darcy was one of the Englishmen whose wounds I dressed. He had been severely burned in the face when two ammunition wagons exploded, and the wound had taken an infection. Not knowing if he would live or die, Captain Darcy earnestly requested that I inform his family and you of his condition.

He specifically requested that your daughter Lizzy be made aware.

I promised Captain Darcy to send you his message; however I delayed some two months so that the progress of Captain Darcy's wound would inform me whether I delivered the last words of a dying man, or the information of his survival. Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy survived his infection, and his wound has completely healed over.

With the sincerest hopes that this letter has brought relief and pleasure, I am your friend,

M. Castro

* * *

Seringapatam, Kingdom of Mysore

May 1783

Darcy stood near the back of the crowd of bearded English officers who stared out the two small barred windows of their prison. Their cell was in the complex of buildings that bordered the great square in the center of Seringapatam and the windows looked out over the square in front of the palace.

It was a traditional feast week for the Hindu population. The king of Mysore was displayed to the population of the kingdom only for this week each year. Hyder Ally, and now his son Tippoo Saib, were usurpers who had named themselves the permanent regents. However, the native population of Mysore was vastly larger than their Mohammedan conquerors and had a superstitious veneration for their old kings.

Instead of murdering the king of Mysore, Tippoo Saib showed him every respect, gave him large sums of money, and surrounded him with every pleasant and pleasurable object.

Today the king sat on a throne underneath the veranda of his palace, surrounded by a profusion of precious stones and silks and lavishly dressed courtiers. In the square there was a succession of musicians, wrestlers, gymnasts and jugglers. The powerless king and the huge crowd watched the entertainment raptly.

Darcy had seen this feast twice before during his imprisonment. After evening fell, the king would return to his palace, with its harem and pleasure gardens and festive decorations, and he would not exit again until the next year.

The king was a small handsome young man with dark skin. He sat cross-legged on the throne, passively watching the celebration.

After the sun slowly set the king at last rose, and all of his subjects showed deep reverence in their bows, and he retired into the palace.

Shortly afterwards, the door to the prison was opened, and the natives who were paid to purchase and cook their food entered. Tippoo Saib gave the British officers a small allowance, but it was woefully inadequate, and occasionally the gentlemen had even been forced to wash their own dishes and clothes.

The English soldiers had heavy irons clapped onto their legs and a pair of chains. Darcy shuffled to the front of the room with the small steps that he could manage. Darcy had gained fluency with the local tongue and easily understood when the leader of the servants said with an exaggerated smile and laugh, "It is very good bread for you today, Captain Darcy. Very good."

That was a signal which meant that someone had paid for a note to be hidden in the bread cake. This was the way the different groups of English prisoners communicated with each other and with the deserters from their ranks who had professed the Mohammedan creed and taken service with Tippoo Saib after being circumcised.

There was also a substantial body of European prisoners, mostly very young, who had been circumcised and inducted into slave battalions by force.

A half-dozen Englishmen had pretended to abandon their countrymen to use the greater freedom afforded to them to escape back to their own army. Since then conditions for Englishmen in Tippoo's service had become far worse.

Darcy often was the recipient of these notes, since he was one of the most senior officers by rank kept in the cell. Colonels or generals when captured were kept separate with their staffs from the regular officers.

If this correspondence was ever discovered, it would be extremely dangerous. The Sultan might execute everyone involved.

Darcy took his meal and shuffled to the window. The room stunk because there were so many people living in it, but it was far better than the prison they had been in for the first months when all of the officers were forced to relieve themselves on the ground, and the officer in charge of the prison refused to let them hire servants to clean the mess out.

He sat down so he could read the note in the faded afternoon light. With his fingers he tore apart the native bread and pulled out the letter. He ate some bits of the bread at the same time as he flapped out the paper so he could read it.

It was from Mr. Black, a deserter.

As Darcy read the contents, his fingers turned into squeezing claws that gripped the paper tight. He felt a desperate anger and wanted to beat helplessly against the walls and the bars in the window. Ever since his fever, Darcy occasionally had sudden fits of rage. Thankfully, the iron control that had been trained into him kept such emotions hidden, and he had never lashed out like a crazed animal. Not that he could do much damage while chained up.

Usually it was triggered by some feature of their situation, but occasionally it required nothing to start such a spell.

"What is it? What is the news?" a half-dozen fellows asked him together.

Darcy stuck the paper out and handed it to an officer who had sat down near him. "They murdered General Matthews." Darcy opened and shut his fist. He imagined squeezing the throat of one of their guards. "Poison. All of his officers were poisoned together. The letter explains it. Matthews carved the story into a bronze pot with a fork before dying, and as the Havlidar wished to know what it said, he asked Black to translate. Black fears that if the war goes against him further, Tippoo may kill all of us rather than let us be freed after the peace."

He wanted to kill again. But there was nothing here to attack. Darcy felt the throbbing headache that always followed these spells. It made him dizzy and feel as though he wished to remove the top of his head.

He slumped against the chipped plaster wall of their cell while the officers around him talked and argued. Damn. Damn. Damn. He hated this loss of control over his emotions. Worse, he did not wish to die. An order for their murder could come any day. They had survived for so long.

Another officer settled next to Darcy and patted him on the shoulder. "Come, Darcy. Finish that meal. I shall eat it if you do not."

Darcy opened his eyes and looked at Lieutenant Bingley who grinned at him. Charles Bingley had been captured in a battle about a year after the defeat of Darcy's force near Conjeveram. The two men were very different. Bingley's father was a tradesman, while Darcy had as great and distinguished a name as could be held without a title. Darcy tended to silence and brooding, while Bingley was effusive with a perpetual grin.

But they fit together as friends, and Darcy felt closer to Bingley than he had ever been to anyone else, except maybe Richard. Even Richard was lesser as they had rarely had opportunity to speak as adults. It was impossible to not be friendly in a crowded room like this. The officers slept next to each other on the ground, they relieved themselves on the edge of the room, and they ate together in the same place. But men still formed small cliques and friendship groups. Darcy had always been a little to the outside until Bingley arrived. Respected and liked, but intimate with no one.

"Matthews knew they were going to poison him, so he starved himself for a period of days." Darcy pushed the meal towards Bingley. "Finish it, if you wish. I cannot. At least Tippoo has made no effort to starve us, I can eat more tomorrow."

Bingley shrugged and used his own fork to spear at Darcy's rice with butter. "Do not be so gloomy."

Darcy forced a half smile, and then rubbed his hand over his scarred face. It was rough and leathery. And there was a large patch with absolutely no sensation. They were given no knives to shave with, so everyone had grown large beards, but no hair grew out of that half of Darcy's face. The way it had healed had drawn the skin up around so that the left side of his lips and the cheek was pulled up in a perpetual tiny grotesque pseudo-smile. He wondered what it looked like.

He was lucky.

Bingley said, "Tippoo Saib may murder us all together, but in England people die suddenly all the time also. It is useless to worry." Bingley grinned, and asked a question that made up one of the most common pastimes in their prison, "What shall you do when you're back in England?"

Normally an effort was made to find a novel response. Today Darcy sighed and said, "I shall take my sister to visit her friend Lizzy."

"That little girl who knows Latin? I never could learn any of those languages. Don't have your ear for it."

"What shall you do?" Darcy returned the question.

"Visit my father I suppose. He was quite unhappy when I joined the army. He wanted me to run the firm while he gave my older brother enough money to become a gentleman. I thought I'd like some adventure."

"We gained more of that than we wanted." Darcy laughed.

Bingley shook his head. "Not me. My detachment was starved out of a fort. No excitement, just sitting first in the fort and then here. Not that I doubt adventure is overrated. No, I'll resign my commission when I get out of here. Probably before I even leave India. Say, do you wonder what that friend of yours is doing right now?"

"Lizzy? She is near eighteen now. She must be long since out, and preparing for some happy party at this moment. I imagine she is deciding who to dance with and entirely happy, while not sparing the slightest thought for those of us here in this prison."

* * *

 **AN: Time to put in my acknowledgements section**

I would like to thank my sister Sarah and my beta readers Steelio, Gina and Betty Jo who read the manuscript and provided extremely valuable feedback on it, and DJ Hendrickson who edited the final version. Their help was valuable, important, and made this a better novel. I am deeply grateful for the time they spent reading and for telling me what they thought as I bounced ideas for fixing problems off of them.


	4. Chapter 4

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Elizabeth stared blankly at the paper before her. Once they learned that Fitzwilliam was still alive, she and Georgiana had decided to write a series of letters that would be sent to India for Fitzwilliam to receive as soon as he was released from prison, so he would know they had been thinking of him. She had never delayed so long to write a letter to him.

It had been a week since it happened. She had been in the room with Papa when he collapsed suddenly.

She did not want to believe it.

She had written Georgiana the day after he died, but she had not yet been able to bring herself to write a letter to Fitzwilliam, so it would sit there with the others, to be given to him if he was still alive when this horrid war ended.

In a way, even more than Georgiana or Jane, through these unread letters, he had become her dearest correspondent. Elizabeth remembered how Fitzwilliam had let her hug him before he left, and how he promised to write back. How he was wiser and older than her, while Georgiana was younger. When Elizabeth was sad, she could tell Georgiana or Jane. But she wrote to Fitzwilliam when she didn't know how to feel or what to do.

Charlotte was too pragmatic for Elizabeth to expose how she felt. Perhaps because he _couldn't_ reply, Elizabeth could say everything to Darcy.

Elizabeth stared at the page again.

She cut her quill. It was quite a perfect cut. So she shaved the edge again. And then again.

If she continued to delay this way, she would only have the stub of the pen left.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Papa is dead.

My father, he

Elizabeth stared at the page. It couldn't be real. Papa couldn't be dead, not so suddenly. He was walking and talking, and then he was no more. Telling Fitzwilliam would make it real. She couldn't finish the letter.

She wanted to take a walk, but the sky was pouring a dark grey rain. A gust of wind lashed the drops against her window, rattling it. Elizabeth wiped away the tears that tracked down her cheeks.

Elizabeth returned to her desk and dipped the quill into the ink again.

He died suddenly. It was not like your father. It must have been painless, and he only had an instant of wondering what was happening before the end. Is that a better or a worse way to die? It terrifies me. Both manners of death.

Poor Papa. He was reading a history about the decline of the Roman Empire, and when I first looked at the book after his death, I saw the spot where the marker had been placed in it, and I sobbed because he would never be able to finish the book.

He was always the best of fathers. Clever and affectionate. Anything I wished to read or learn, he strove to teach me. You know that the journey where we all met came about because I listened intently to his stories about visiting and experiencing the monuments, and ruins, and paintings.

He wished me to experience everything for myself. My life shall be incomparably empty without him there.

I imagine you embracing me. Do you remember when I found you crying in your father's stables after he died? I comforted you then, when I embraced you and we talked and cried together. I need you to do that for me now, even if only in spirit. I do imagine you telling me to cry, but then be happy, and I feel warmer.

He was a good father, and I shall always miss him, but I cannot let myself be miserable beyond its proper time. I have barely eaten for two days, and now I shall.

When Elizabeth returned to her desk, she looked at what had been written and smiled weepily. Other anxieties arose. She had passed the grey-headed Mr. Collins and his thick son when she returned from the kitchen. They were in the library, arguing with Mrs. Bennet about whether Papa's books were in the entailment.

I worry for the future.

I do not know what will become of us. As soon as Father died, Mama grabbed his body and shrieked in anger at him for leaving us to be thrown out of her home and starve in the hedgerows.

Surely it will not come to that. My Uncle Phillips and Uncle Gardiner will do something to help us.

Mr. Collins, my father's cousin and heir, has already arrived to take possession of Longbourn. He is a man a few years older than Papa, with thin grey hair and a rat-like expression. He is worried that we shall take something from the estate that belongs to him. So even though, in his great generosity, he gives us two whole weeks before we must vacate the premises, he stands about and watches everything we do.

Anytime he sees something being packed away — and this is why must we pack everything away so quickly — if there is the slightest possibility it is not a personal item, he rubs his hands together and points. "Ahhh, mine I think? Are you sure that it is not mine?"

He has already been in a terrific argument with my Uncle Phillips about the legal standing of a valuable silver plate that belonged to my Grandmother and was purchased after the entailment was established. It is fortunate we have an uncle who is an attorney, else I'm quite sure Mr. Collins would rob us blind.

His son is twenty-one or twenty-two, and he had been studying to enter the clergy. The way he looks at his father is odd. He is both terrified and fascinated by him. Mr. William has a manner of prefacing almost anything he says to his father with a reference to how excellent and generous his father is.

This praise pleases Mr. Collins greatly.

Is that not the greatest proof that Mr. Collins is not in fact an excellent and generous father? Papa, dear Papa, would have laughed at me and asked what I hoped to cadge from him if I addressed him in such a mode. I can see him smiling and calling me into his room to delight in some absurd observation.

I am sorry for the tears on the page. I do not even try to help it, as you will embrace me in thought. I do wish I'd not smeared the ink. I shall remember to write over that part with what I meant to say if it is illegible once dry.

Mr. William is a heavy young man. He seems to have no thought not echoed from his father, though often when his father rubs his hands and demands his due, Mr. William will imitate him by rubbing his hands in the exact same manner. There is an odd mix of arrogance and servility in his manner. He praises everyone around him, like he does his father, I believe just in case someone takes into their minds to beat him. Yet, as the son of the new proprietor of Longbourn, he conceives of himself as a great personage in the reflected glory of his father.

I do not believe Mr. William has been much in the company of young women. He stares at me and Jane almost slack-jawed when we enter the room, and then he says the most absurd nonsense to us, about how we are jewels of the countryside and the like. He hopes to be flattering. I know he wants to be flattering, because he explained to me that women greatly admire such compliments, so he makes it a practice to think them up and then deliver them in as unstudied a manner as possible.

I wish Papa had met him. Mr. William's absurdity would have delighted Papa. It is grotesque how he attempts to flirt with us, and not a fortnight after our father is dead; if he were not such a helpless comic character I would be entirely disgusted by him. As it is I feel sorry for him. It is impossible that he ever shall marry any but a foolish and desperate woman.

Mama is furious with Jane, and I, and even Mary, who is still only fifteen, for not having married yet. I always intended to marry for love. And Jane as well. That cannot be so wrong. Mama expects us to starve — it seems unreal. I believed there was at least some money. If there was truly nothing for us to live off of, wouldn't Papa have done something?

I asked Mama, and she screamed at me and Papa for not having encouraged Jane to marry anyone. She has always been so fond of Jane. And she blames the nonsensical notions that Papa let me have for her not having married yet.

I am worried. I should not be; someone will care for us. At least well enough for a minimum of gentility to be maintained. Why then is Mama so frightened and angry?

I shall at least lose the books. Papa would be so unhappy. It makes me cry again to think about it. Either Mama shall assert ownership over the library and sell it all, or Mr. Collins will, and I shall be banished from them forever. That room was our favorite. I have spent half my hours in it reading and studying with Papa. I learned there the unladylike language of Latin before the ladylike ones of French and Italian. I sat on Papa's lap as a child, and by his side since.

I cannot write more. But, while this is an odd correspondence, one which you will not see for years, and so I must imagine the replies, I have come to depend on it greatly.

Your grieving friend,

E Bennet


	5. Chapter 5

Seringapatam, Kingdom of Mysore

March 1784

When they were let out the world seemed unimaginably vast. The sky sat huge above them, endless with no roof. To suddenly see it again after so many years was almost frightening. There were vast empty spaces between the buildings. So much space, and the beggars in the streets of the capital could sit easily along the streets, strung along them without touching each other if they did not wish to.

They waited out in the sun as the armorer knocked the leg irons off their legs one by one. Once the irons were removed everyone had to relearn to walk without the constant weight. For the first days they all compulsively took the tiny shuffling steps that had been necessary until then. They laughed at each other, feeling gleeful at the hot wind blowing past them.

All of the men from the various prisons in Seringapatam were gathered together in a single long column that marched out of the city. Darcy saw a familiar man in the line of private soldiers that had joined the officers. "Tomlinson! Sergeant Tomlinson."

"By my eyes. Captain Darcy, alive and well."

Darcy heartily shook his hand, and then throwing his ingrained reserve and consciousness of position aside, embraced Tomlinson.

The men looked at each other. Darcy asked, "Have you managed with the neck?"

"Well enough, sir. Well enough. You're a bit ugly, but that isn't important."

Darcy laughed. "No it isn't. Bingley, this is the man I told you about. He saved my life."

"That is not true. In any case you saved mine first."

"You were fully able to walk. I did nothing."

"But I would not have."

Bingley shook Tomlinson's hand heartily.

That day they marched a half dozen miles into the vast Indian countryside, passing village after village populated by running brown-skinned children, thin cows, and huts with grass roofs. The huge sun beat down upon them as they traveled towards the border with a troop of Tippoo's soldiers keeping a distant watch over the British.

When they stopped to camp in the afternoon, the rations they were provided were tiny, much less food than they received when in the dungeon. That surprised them, as they expected to be _better_ fed now that they were free. Also they had given most of their money as gifts to the servants and guards who had shown them friendship and kindness.

Darcy angrily went with several other officers to the soldier who was in charge of the contingent escorting them out of the country. He wore a huge round turban with a foot-long feather in the center and a long black mustache. His eyes were black and bright with intelligence.

Darcy had the best Urdu, and he said sharply, "We need more food. Where are the rations?"

The man's eyes crinkled with amusement. "You've been fed." He gestured around at the rice which had been handed out already and said in decent English, "Behold, your food."

"That is all? Do you intend to starve us?"

"Hahahaha, no. Not starve you. It is such a good joke. The nabob agreed you will be returned to your people, but _your_ commissioner did not specify how much you would receive on the march out of our land. So we will give you nothing but the minimum to survive. Hahahahaha. Is it not a good joke? 'Tis not our fault at all."

Darcy saw red again. This time though he was free and the tormenter was in front of him. Bingley laid a hand on his shoulder. Darcy nearly slapped at him. He imagined leaping at the man. He wished he could. But even though he now physically had the ability to act, he knew he must still keep a tight rein over himself. Darcy's jaw ground together, and it was hard to walk away with his belly twinging with hunger. However, he made himself do so.

It took the best part of a month of marches in short stages before they reached Madras. When they reentered the company's territory, Darcy's regiment was reconstituted with its surviving soldiers, who made up a little less than half the number that had left England. They were to be immediately sent home. The colonel and majors had all died, and Darcy put up the money out of his private funds to purchase the empty colonelcy. He would make Stanley give him the sum he spent on the return to England.

Tomorrow the men would board an East Indiaman that stood in the harbor, and then the next morning they would at last say goodbye to this country.

Darcy rented a small room near the port. He dressed the next morning without looking at his face. The mirror stood on the other side of the room. He could leave without seeing himself in it. He did not know what he expected. The camp barber who did most of his work on the enlisted men had given him his first shave in three years. Darcy had closed his eyes and looked away when the mirror was offered.

It was time to see. Besides the scarring did not matter, but there was some sense of a loss of himself in the time in prison that it represented and which scared him.

It was a bubbly and twisted pattern that spread over his cheek. Worst was the dead white sensationless patch in the center, but behind that the rough skin spread to the edge of his ear and halfway down his cheek. A good three or so inches across. Darcy suddenly felt that rage again. Damn, damn, damn.

He wanted to smash the mirror.

Darcy let out a long breath. The familiar headache started throbbing and he stared out the window and rubbed at his eyes. Would these spells ever end? He'd talked to a doctor in the city earlier today. There were surgeries that might release the cincture around his scar a little, but Darcy did not intend to let them cut him. He'd heard of minor surgeries becoming infected and killing the patient. As for the rages, it was common for them to occur after severe fevers. Some men recovered naturally with time and others did not.

Despite being free, Darcy felt empty and alone. He shouldn't. Bingley had already sold his commission, and he would travel home on the same East Indiaman as Darcy and his regiment. He would be surrounded still with the same men he'd been with for the past years. He wasn't alone.

Darcy sat down in the rickety chair in front of the small desk in his room and unstoppably began to cry. He could not understand why. The last time he had ever cried was after his father died. Lizzy, the little girl she still was in his mind, had held him and cried with him. By now she was almost nineteen and probably married.

Perhaps that was it. He now saw how everyone in England who he knew had become a new person. Time had separated him from everyone who deeply mattered to him except Bingley and the other officers he had been with. The tears did not comfort him.

When Darcy went downstairs into the common room of the inn, a small bespectacled company clerk stood and greeted him. "Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy?"

"I am a Colonel now, but yes."

"Excellent. Excellent. It would have been quite sad for us if you'd been one of the men who died in prison. I have a package for you that I've been charged for the past years with guarding."

Darcy blinked with surprise as he was handed a solid plain box that made no noise at being moved and was not particularly heavy. "What is it?"

The clerk said, "The box is open. Letters."

Darcy flipped open the box and looked.

It was stuffed with envelopes stacked lengthwise, all sealed with a thick daub of red wax and imprinted with the Darcy house seal. Georgiana's clear hand had written the direction on each. There must be fifty of them.

When Darcy looked up the clerk smiled and said, "I apologize for my impertinence, but I have been extremely curious for years. Is Georgiana Darcy your wife?"

"No, my sister. The best sister." Tears, this time from happiness and affection, started pressing at the edge of Darcy's eyes. The chest represented years of written affection. He only had a vague wish that Lizzy had also been able to write him. He drew on years of discipline to try to keep a solid face, but from the clerk's expression he could see how deeply Darcy was affected.

"She must be," the clerk said. "We received the first in September of '82 along with a sum of money to ensure the letters were stored to be delivered to you promptly upon your release at the end of the war. There has been a new envelope about every two weeks since then. The most recent arrived last week."

Darcy placed the box on a table and shook the man's hand. "Thank you, thank you. I…I do not think you can imagine how much these mean to me."

The man smiled. "I am glad to have met you, Colonel Darcy. Give your sister the regards of our office when you see her. We have all been very impressed. But I must return to work."

Darcy smiled like a loon at the letters. He rubbed his fingers over the surface of the envelopes. The waiter came by and Darcy asked for tea. The letters had been arranged in order, with the first set in the front of the box. He pulled it out and stared at it. It was a thick envelope, they all were. Georgiana must have written a great deal.

Looking around the common room, Darcy suddenly realized he couldn't open these in front of the public. He was likely to cry no matter how he tried to stop it. When the waiter came with the cup of tea, Darcy replaced the first letter in the box and carefully cradled the box against his chest. He gestured for the waiter to follow him, and then put the tea on his desk when he returned to his room.

It profaned this happy moment, but when Darcy sat down in front of the box, he felt a stab of discontent at seeing there were no letters from Elizabeth.

Little Lizzy.

Of course she hadn't continued to write him. He remembered that her birthday was in June. She might have been sixteen already when the first of these letters were written. No longer a little girl, and no longer able to write to an unmarried gentleman, no matter what she had wished to do two years earlier.

Had she married yet? Probably. It had been obvious she would be beautiful, and when combined with such an excellent education she must have drawn men like bears seeking a honeycomb once she was out. Her life had passed him by, she had entered womanhood, while he was trapped with irons round his feet.

A moment of rage began again, but this time it cut off as he saw Elizabeth's enthusiastic face the day he'd left London. She stood next to Georgiana damping her tears with a handkerchief. She and Georgiana waved their handkerchiefs wildly as his ship slowly floated off and a seagull sat on one of the wooden piles of the pier.

Darcy pulled the first letter out again, and realized he had no knife to open it with. He had a sword and pistol that came with the dress uniform provided by the General upon his return, but that would be a ridiculous object to pry the wax off the letter with.

Darcy pulled open the rickety wooden drawers of the desk in the rented room to see if there was anything useful. Fortunately, in the last drawer he found a plain-handled penknife.

He took a deep breath and smiled. He smoothly sliced through the wax, enjoying the feel of a well-executed motion.

And then his face brightened. It was not only Georgiana's hand inside. The envelope had bulged so thickly because a second stack of papers had been stuck inside the first, written by Lizzy.

Somehow, though his sister should have his first loyalty, Darcy opened the letter from Elizabeth first. He shifted his chair to catch the light from the afternoon sun on the paper and read:

To our dear, miraculously alive Captain Darcy,

You are alive! You are alive! You are alive!

I suspect that is not news to you, but you must forgive me my enthusiasm.

I have never, ever been so happy. Never. It is my birthday today, and we received the letter telling us about how you fared from that kind, wonderful Monsieur Castro this morning.

Georgiana is here with me, as I am quite certain you will learn from her letter without me telling you.

I apologize for the interruption — though there is no interruption in your experience of this letter. Mine has been quite disjointed, as Georgie and I have gone about dancing together, and Papa found some fireworks to let off in the lawn. But you shall gain so much more of the flavor of this happy time if I make you experience the interruption as well as myself.

Georgiana has told me to write her greetings to you, and I have insisted she write mine to you in her letter. Do tell me if she has not written out those greetings, for I will be most cross with her in that case.

Written in Georgiana's hand: Fitzwilliam, don't listen to any such suggestion. You know I would never fail to convey Elizabeth's greeting, even though she is writing direct to you at the same moment.

Captain Darcy, I fear I must inform you that your sister has become quite bold. The shy little thing you left has begun modifying the correspondence of her friends the instant they turn around. We also took to fighting with the pens and ink and are very fortunate it was only our petticoats and a little of the rug that have become irreparably stained.

I insist it improves the rug, which is a quite ugly brown and red thing.

This letter has become unconventional, but you will not mind, I trust.

There is little enough news of import since my last letter to you. However, today I did turn sixteen, and I shall come out in another month, after Georgie returns to the boring and quite oppressive school (which, by the way, teaches no Latin). I'm quite cross with your brother, he delayed informing Georgiana of your supposed false demise unconscionably long, and then never visited Georgiana to comfort her.

It was left to me and Papa to rescue Georgie for her summer recess. Which has turned to a happy, happy occasion, replacing the gloom that had been expected.

Papa has taken to learning Newton's calculus, and we are studying it together. He had a professor come out from Cambridge to correct us upon the points we proved to be mistaken about. I of course have spent a great deal of time in the past weeks playing and singing with Georgie.

Your sister is such a dear, and she never comments upon how between her visits I always become worse, while she continues to become yet more exceptional in her play. There is something magical about it. In a few years' time she will be as fine as the performers we heard on the continent.

Jane continues to be the belle of every dance, yet to my mother's disappointment, no one of sufficient fortune has yet been ensnared by her snares, shot through by the bolt of Cupid, bound by Aphrodite's tender ribbons, etc. etc.

I would write a great deal more, and I assure you I shall in my next, but Georgiana is yawning, so it is near time for us to go to sleep.

It may be a long time before you receive this, but we are determined to send you many, many letters so you will have something of home when you are released. You shall have all the news and gossip that Georgiana and I can provide, and you will know that you were loved and never forgotten.

Your ecstatically happy,

E Bennet

Darcy immediately opened Georgiana's letter and laughed at her version of their argument. He then paced back and forth in the room, holding both letters and smiling madly. His dear, dear girls. They never forgot him.

Soon, and yet in a long time, they would all be together again.

Darcy returned to the desk, and pulled out two sheets of his own paper. He would be busy all day tomorrow, and then the next day the East Indiaman would start the voyage home. It would be a long journey around the Cape of Africa and then back up along the coast to Europe.

However, a letter written and sent off by packet boat would likely precede his arrival by some weeks or months. By the time he was done scribbling a note, the sky was darkening. Already yawning after the long marches of the past weeks, Darcy went straight to sleep with a smile on his face.

He had the letter placed with those waiting for the next packet boat the next morning. Darcy spent the rest of the day overseeing the movement of the regiment's goods onto the ship, and then he ensured all of his men were well settled into their cramped berths.

That evening when the busywork ended Darcy settled into the cabin he had been given on the ship. As the regiment's colonel, he had his own room. The captain of the ship was the only other person with like accommodation. It was a small room, as the larger rooms which would often be used as cabins for passengers on normal trading voyages were being shared by several officers apiece.

A small sea lantern swung with the endless swaying of the ship above the tiny desk. Darcy pulled out the second letter and carefully loosened the seal. With each packet, he read Elizabeth's letter first and then Georgiana's. He had an unending delighted expression as he read for several hours, before his yawns drove him to sleep. He forced himself to sleep instead of reading until the next morning, since he wished to savor the experience of reading through their letters.

The next day there were some matters which required his attention, but he spent hours lounged on a long chair on the deck, reading one letter after another.

Shortly after she began writing, Elizabeth came out and was the _belle_ of Meryton like Jane. She filled her letters with warm jokes and incisive portraits of the characters around her. Frequently there were little asides reported from her father who did know all about her correspondence. She had such a charming way of writing.

Georgiana's letters were also wonderful to read, but she didn't have the strength of voice Lizzy did. She occasionally mentioned Stanley, who she was initially very unhappy with, but he did something sweet for her during the summer of '82 that made her less annoyed with him. After that a few of the envelopes included a note from Stanley.

That also meant something to Darcy. They had never been the closest, but the family relationship mattered to both men. There were no letters from Richard, but Darcy did not expect that as his cousin had probably been in Canada until near the end of '83 when the crown made peace with the rebels.

Over the course of the first full day on the ship, Darcy read Elizabeth's sixteenth year and started on her seventeenth. Balls, books, walks, conversations with Charlotte and Jane, happy times. Darcy realized that her letters had become something in the nature of a journal for Elizabeth. Her words became increasingly intimate, and Darcy was drawn to sympathize and care with her about her concerns.

She was uninterested in the gentlemen around her. They all dismissed her learning as nonsense. She wrote frankly about her arguments with her mother, who firmly believed she should throw herself into gaining ladylike accomplishments, instead of learning whatever Mr. Bennet currently studied. The only normal accomplishment Elizabeth kept was a modest facility with the piano so she could play duets when Georgiana visited.

She went to London to visit Georgiana and her aunt and uncle several times a year, and she adored the opera, the theater, the big assembly at the Parthenon, and her carefully supervised visits to the pleasure gardens at Ranelagh.

During the second day of their voyage, Darcy ignored his jealous comrades, who had not received such a package, to read through Elizabeth's seventeenth year. Bingley laughed at him, and from what he said, it was clear that Bingley had noticed Darcy was reading letters from two different hands. Even though he completely trusted Bingley, Darcy of course could not confirm that, as it was improper for Elizabeth to write to him.

Close to evening, a strong salty breeze had picked up that led Darcy to retreat back into his cabin so that there would be no chance of a letter blowing away while he attempted to read it. The second letter Darcy read after entering his cabin opened with the words: _Papa is dead_.

It was like a blow struck in his stomach. That letter been written in May of '83. Elizabeth's father had been dead for more than a year, and he had not known it. Darcy rushed through the letter. Then he sat back and wondered what happened next to Lizzy.

He looked back at the box full of letters, sitting on top of the boxwood desk wedged in the corner of the wall of his cabin. All the letters had the same double thickness caused by having two sets of papers folded into them. The last had arrived in Madras only a week before he had. As recently as February of this year Elizabeth had still had the resources and will to continue writing her letters to him.

Pain and grief for Mr. Bennet sat on his heart. How could Mr. Bennet have left them in such desperate circumstances that Lizzy would be so frightened for the future?

Darcy ignored the letter from Georgiana which had been packaged with that letter from Elizabeth and opened the next package.

My Dear Fitzwilliam,

I was frightened and unhappy when I wrote that last letter. I still grieve daily for Papa, but he would not wish me to weep and cry to an excess. As for material concerns:

Mama's terror of starving in the hedgerows on an income of just two hundred a year is past. We shall not face genteel poverty; we will instead remain at Longbourn as dependents of Jane's father-in-law. Jane and William Collins are to marry. We shall not be forced to eat bread and wear second hand clothes while begging Uncles Gardiner and Phillips for extra money.

The sale is made. The papers signed. My sister has thrown herself before Collins as the docile, doltish sacrifice. She wants nothing more than to be a wife. After all it is a good estate and he is a good man.

I cannot believe Jane!

How can she marry him? Mama only thinks we are impoverished because living modestly is an anathema to her. She has five thousand pounds in the four percents. No great fortune, but a hundred every six months is enough to ensure that starvation is no possibility — only the prospect of starvation would lead me to marry such a person. His face is fat, and the jowls are so large as to create a double chin, and he rarely bathes — you can smell the sweat and grease from his meals on him as he passes around.

I know what you think, do not be so shallow, Lizzy. Perhaps he has fine mental characteristics, which do not include the knowledge of when to bathe; one should not judge a person solely on their physical beauty, etc., etc. In parenthesis, everyone claims it is wrong to judge a person based on their physical beauty, but we all do so a little nonetheless.

Of greater significance, his mental points correspond to the physical. Mr. Collins taught his son to behave in a most obsequious manner, and he cannot speak without spending a minute and a half apologizing for intruding upon your notice, and flattering you for attending to him. Somehow, despite being a dog begging to be kicked, he is conscious that he is really a great man as the son of a landed gentleman.

His eyes follow Jane with that vacant gaze; his mouth so wide open so that a passing fly might pop in. Jane's beauty is extraordinary — I know that — but a real gentleman can look away for one minute in five. Mama's shrieks are loud, and I daresay she would never have forgiven Jane, or I, if he'd been refused.

I cannot even say for certain I would've acted differently if I were placed in Jane's position. It is easy to say that so long as we have enough to eat and the rent for a cramped cottage I would throw us out of Longbourn and gain the undying enmity of my mother.

If I were the eldest and the choice of William Collins, I still would have refused him. But…it would have been difficult. I can no longer despise Jane.

I began writing this letter with great anger in my heart towards her, but now I only feel sad.

She will be unhappy, I think. Her mind is too good and sensible to really be comfortable married to such a person. But better her than I. It is not a selfish thought, but an expression of truth. Even if I had been convinced to marry him, I would rebel against that stupid man and either lose my respectability or become entirely miserable. While I do not believe Jane can be happy, her goodness is such that she can be content. That would be impossible for me.

At least he is just stupid. There is nothing worse that can be said of Mr. William. His father frightens me.

There's something hard behind his eyes, while in personal appearance he is ugly, his countenance has some feature like the portraits of the condittori we saw when together, in those happier days, in Rome. I do not think any moral consideration would stop him from seizing something he desired.

Fortunately, he is more vulture than raptor. He has such a meal in my father's income and estate that hopefully he shall spend the rest of his days digesting it and leave the rest of the world well alone.

Yours sincerely and affectionately as always,

E Bennet

Darcy returned to the deck. A large moon sat over the water brightening the night so he could easily see his way around the ship. He walked to the stern. Some unknown phenomenon made the sea glow a pale blue in the wake of the large ship. Darcy rubbed at the sensationless spot on his face and over the leathery scar around it. A sea gull cawed, and there was a hollow wooden clank of something heavy dropping onto the deck planking and then a crew member swore loudly.

Then the night was quiet again.

If Elizabeth's situation worsened, Georgiana could not help her until she was much older. What if Mr. Collins had proven to be more of a raptor than she expected?

Mr. Bennet.

A moment jumped in perfect clarity to Darcy's mind. The day before his father died, Mr. Bennet had read from a Bible in Greek to his shrunken father, who sat shivering and sick on a divan. Elizabeth and Georgiana had their arms around each other as Elizabeth whispered to his sister.

He had concentrated in that moment, knowing his father was almost gone, and he remembered the ancient words: _I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live._

He was glad he had known Mr. Bennet.

The way Elizabeth thought living on two hundred a year would not be very bad for a family of six women showed that he should have done a far better job of setting aside resources for them. But Elizabeth had been adored and nurtured into the capable and vibrant and…wonderful woman whose voice he'd heard in his mind for the past days.

A woman who understood how much a man would need letters from home after years of isolation. A woman who let him see and read so much of her spirit and soul.

A woman grown.

If she was convinced living on _two hundred_ a year was a prospect of little horror, she could not possibly flinch at marrying a man whose income was about a thousand a year.

He was falling in love with Elizabeth through these letters.

There had been a sense in him, even before he received the letters, that maybe once she was of a marriageable age that she would make a girl well worth pursuing.

He was sure he wanted to marry her.

A rip of anxiety pulled at Darcy's thoughts. What if she was already married?

He hurried back into his room and grabbed the last letter in the row. The one with the postmark from February of this year, some five months ago. He opened it, more roughly than normal and immediately peered at the bottom to see what the salutation was: _Sincerely and affectionately yours, E Bennet._

She hadn't been married then.

That didn't prove anything. Perhaps, she had been engaged. Darcy hurriedly read through the letter.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Netherfield is let again, to the family of an impecunious baronet. Sir Clement is an odd figure. He wasted his wife's fortune and took on substantial debts of his own; however, the estate is entailed so he cannot sell it. Instead he has rented it out; I understand that is a substantial place, though smaller than your brother's vast park. He has retreated to Netherfield to live a cheaper and more constrained mode of life in the largest house of our neighborhood.

The current report is that Sir Clement is worth some six or seven thousand a year, but half that sum goes to his creditors before he ever sees it.

Sir Clement is a friend of Mr. Collins's, which is why he settled here. Before Papa died and Mr. Collins inherited the estate, Mr. Collins was a lackey of Sir Clement. They have spent more time together drunk than sober since his arrival. That I believe says all which must be said about the moral character of Sir Clement.

In fact, I believe the only kind thing anyone says of him is that he is a superb fencer and that he pays his debts of honor.

He is of medium height and with a broad chest. Despite being well past forty, his blond hair has not gone grey and he has a healthy lean appearance from regular sport and exercise. However, when he looks at a person, all of the pleasant emotions his appearance might create flee. There is something vicious about the way his eyes look over a room. And he openly ogles me, Jane, and any pretty woman that crosses his path. Even in front of his wife; no — he leers at women especially in front of his wife. He despises her as he'd been made to marry her by his father for her fortune.

Lady Emily is a sweet woman with wispy golden hair and no pride of position. Her skin is parchment thin; she is thin and frail. Her mannerisms are elegant and well bred, but she is extremely ill and believed by her doctor to be dying. It is sad, from our calls I think we could become good friends given time, but I do not believe she will live long enough. She looks like your father did. Her eyes sunken and her movements slow.

Sir Clement pays no attention to his wife's declining state, and he carouses endlessly with Mr. Collins. The housekeeper at Netherfield says that on the two nights Mr. Collins did not return to Longbourn, they had stayed up together until the late hours of the morning, drinking, shouting, and shooting off guns, while the poor woman shivered in her bed unable to sleep due to the noise.

Sir Clement's son has attended faithfully upon his mother. He is a sweet lad, perhaps a year older than I am, but it is obvious any time they are in the same room that he despises his father. It is natural — but hardly an emotion which is good to see in a child.

It would have been better for the neighborhood if Netherfield had remained unoccupied longer and found a different sort of tenant. Tomorrow I shall call upon them with Jane again, as Lady Emily earnestly encouraged us to do so.

She is obviously lonely. Even though he needed to rent his estate for the income, it was dreadful of Sir Clement to drag his wife away from her friends and familiar neighbors at such a time. It may have been a blow to his dignity, but Sir Clement ought to have taken a house in his old neighborhood, so that if the worst befall her, Lady Emily might have been surrounded by friends.

I intend to call on her as often as I can, so long as she desires company. She should have as much friendship as possible.

We read in every paper signs that India is on the brink of peace. The newspapers say that even though the French have withdrawn from the war, Tippoo Sultan refuses to end the fighting as he still hopes to steal territory from our Company. However, the government has ordered Governor Hastings to give what is needed to make peace. We are all tired of war, and the troops have been returned and discharged from the other colonies. You in India are the only ones left of our soldiers fighting in this dreadful war.

It is my hope that you do not see this letter for many years, because the ship carrying it passes your ship returning to England. I know it is possible that after your release your regiment will be kept for some time in India, but I do hope that it shall not be a great time more before I see you again.

Sincerely and affectionately yours,

E Bennet

Darcy stared at the letter.

It proved nothing. It would be December at the earliest before he saw her again. A year was a long time for a vibrant, beautiful girl of nineteen to stay unattached. Even though she had no portion, any gentleman who saw and spoke with Elizabeth must come to want her. Her letters were filled with dances and parties and social calls.

Darcy put the letters away and walked back outside. There was a pleasant soft breeze. The stars spangled overhead in a giant sparkling tapestry. There were a few lanterns swinging from the stern and aft of the ship. The moon was high in the sky. He sat down again on one of the deck chairs.

Even if she did not marry… He was Georgiana's brother to her. Darcy rubbed over the rough, senseless skin on his face. Georgiana's scarred brother. Everyone judged a little on physical appearance.

Darcy scratched at his face and wished his skin still had sensation.

"I've not seen you glower so since that popinjay told us about the reduced rations."

Bingley sat sprightly down on the deck chair next to Darcy's.

Darcy shrugged, knowing that Bingley would not be bothered by his occasional silence. They sat together, some fifteen minutes, without speaking.

Was he someone who Elizabeth could love once she knew who he was now?

The infinitude of stars shone brightly at them.

Darcy remembered how he had nearly died.

"I want to marry her."

Bingley replied with a smile in his voice, "Of course you do. So your Lizzy _did_ send letters along with your sister's."

Darcy replied, "You shall never hear me say something that could impugn the honor of a lady — she sees me as a brother, not as a lover. I'm scarred, I am not the same person I was."

"I would not worry about the scar. She'll see right through that to the excellent man you are."

"What if she does not? What if she marries before we return?"

"You worry too much. If she will not have you, then you will find someone else to love dearly. This is more absurd to worry about than it was when you worried Tippoo would have us all executed."

"It feels as though it matters more."

"Darcy, you are the wise one of us. What advice would you have to me if I came to you obsessing about the matter of a lady fair when I could do nothing for many months about the outcome?"

"I would tell you to enjoy the sensation of hope and affection, but to remember that humans often have little control over the outcomes of their own lives."

Bingley didn't say anything else. Darcy looked back at the bright stars. "Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

December 1784

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Sarah finished wrapping the ribbon through Elizabeth's hair and left to work on Kitty and Lydia's hair. Elizabeth remained at the dressing table and inspected herself in the polished mirror. It was an entirely new sensation to dread an assembly.

Ever since Sir Clement had entered half mourning his attentions to her had been pointed. Elizabeth did not dislike him for his appearance; despite being over forty, he was a trim and vigorous man. But she despised him for how he'd treated his wife, and for his friendship with Mr. Collins, and for the way he looked at her, as though she were merely a pretty object to have and fondle.

There was something dangerous about him, as though he would never listen to a woman's refusal.

Elizabeth wanted to visit Georgiana or the Gardiners in London, but Mama had refused to let her leave once she saw how Sir Clement looked at her.

She did not want to dance with him tonight. The point of dancing was to show off one's appearance and physical attributes. He would take her hands, and she would get the soiled feeling in her hands, as though there was some gross essence of Sir Clement that passed through the fabric. He would stare at her bosom bouncing up and down as she moved through the steps. He openly imagined her without any clothes after he had somehow convinced her to marry him.

Elizabeth felt dirty and a little sick after any dance with Sir Clement.

There was no choice. He would ask her to dance, and she would have to agree if she wished to dance with anyone else that night. Elizabeth already felt disgusted. She knew it was irrational. Still, she half wanted to pretend a sudden cold or headache and beg to stay home.

Mama would not let her. Mama thought marrying Sir Clement would be a wonderful thing.

Elizabeth feared what would happen if she met him alone. One time he'd met her during a walk, and afterwards she either took a servant with her or stayed along well traveled roads when she went out.

Fitzwilliam would return home to England, hopefully within the next few weeks. And Mama's foolishness meant she would not be able to see him when his ship arrived in London.

A month ago Georgiana received his letter and relayed the pages he wrote her by the post.

To my Dear Lizzy,

I have only read a few of your kind, wonderful letters. As I am now the Colonel, I am quite busy moving everyone aboard ship. Only once I have boarded and we have set sail shall I have leisure to read them all. I expect to enjoy many days of savoring and reading again and again your letters.

Words cannot, my feeble words at least cannot, express how deeply I needed your notes — you have seen me cry before, so I can admit tears come to my eyes as I write this. I had nothing for more than three years but my imagination of home to support me, and then, upon my release I was given years and years of friendship and news.

Thank you, and thank you, and thank you.

I must complete this in a minute. Practicalities: This letter shall be sent by courier ship, and then driven overland through Egypt and into the Mediterranean. It likely shall arrive a month or two before I do. However, if the winds are kind the whole way, my ship will arrive in London before Christmas. Unfortunately, long voyages are delayed more often than not, so do not count on our arrival until several weeks past the new year.

No matter what, I eagerly look forward to seeing you and Georgiana. Give my greetings to your father, though I confess I am more eager to speak with you than with him. Tell him that I look forward to seeing what I can remember of Latin and chess.

Your profoundly grateful friend,

F Darcy

Elizabeth carefully folded the letter again, and replaced it in its envelope. She had read it again and again and smiled each time.

Jane came into the dressing room, bouncing her baby in her arms. Elizabeth stood and took little William from her sister and rubbed her cheek against the infant who cooed and batted his tiny fists against his aunt's face.

"Papa Collins told me that Sir Clement said he was eager to see you tonight." Elizabeth kissed the baby closely so that Jane could not see her snarl. "I know you do not like him greatly, but Papa Collins says he is a great man, with such condescension towards us. You should try to know him better. He did treat Lady Emily shockingly, but I am sure he regrets that. Papa Collins would be so happy if you two became friends."

Elizabeth handed Jane's child back to her. "I shall have no choice but to see Sir Clement this evening. You look very, very well with that cap."

"Do you think?" Jane sparkled and turned side to side. "It was such a kind gift. William is the best of husbands, he never forgets any duty, and you have seen how kind he is to everyone."

Elizabeth's face accidently wrinkled in disgust. Jane was not in love with her husband, but she insisted on pretending that she was.

"Now, Lizzy," Jane said. "He is not so clever as you, but he does very well for me."

The two women left the dressing room, and Jane's husband, who _had_ learned to bathe since his marriage, but improved in no other light, shied away from his child when the baby reached for his father and said, "Sister Elizabeth, my generous father, for you know he is the kindest and most generous of men to all who depend upon him, informed me that his noble friend, the greatest personage of the neighborhood, conveyed his great admiration of your person to him. Though as a sparkling diamond whose scintillating glow throws all other unmarried maidens into the dimness, you cannot expect anything but the most exaggerated of praise to be your due."

The nurse had been called by Jane while _Brother_ William spoke and took the giggling infant away. Jane took her husband's arm and smiled, either not knowing, or pretending not to know, how absurd his speech was.

The assembly rooms were bustling and crowded when the Bennets and Collinses arrived. Elizabeth had hoped to find someone else for the first dance, but Sir Clement was near the door, and he took her hand and bowed his head, asking for the honor of her hand in the first possible dance, before Elizabeth had fully looked about at the room.

She had no choice but to accept him with a half concealed scowl.

Sir Clement still wore a black armband, but that was his only remaining concession to the death of Lady Emily. He handed Elizabeth the arm of his bright blue coat and she had to go with him to the line of dancers.

Lady Emily had lived a little more than two months after she moved to Netherfield. Elizabeth and a half dozen other ladies had been with her at the end, but Sir Clement had not been present for his wife's death, as he had been drinking at the inn with Mr. Collins, and they ignored the messenger sent to recall Sir Clement. They returned shortly after it was over, arm in arm, singing a bawdy drinking song.

When the horrified clergyman informed Sir Clement that his wife was dead, he laughed and ordered his servants to all have a toast for the news. Young Mr. Allen, his son, then punched his father.

It was a great to-do, and almost the only thing the neighborhood could speak of for the next week. Mr. Allen was immediately sent back to Cambridge, and he had not been seen since. Knowing the gossip and seeing the disapproval of his new neighbors, Sir Clement did make an outward show of mourning for the first six months. He wore black clothes, and drank somewhat less.

Then he started to attend the assemblies and parties, and he demanded Elizabeth dance with him every chance he had. When he took her hand for the dance, he had this way of squeezing her fingers together and rubbing the thumb along her knuckles. He ignored the way she tried to pull her hand away. Also he inevitably brushed his hand past her breasts, as though by accident, as the dance ended. Sir Clement was hardly the only man who was a little too handsy, but he was the only one who made Elizabeth wish to wash herself off.

Elizabeth endured the dance with him and immediately found a different gentleman to partner with, and she tried to completely put him out of her mind. However, the event she'd dreaded all night came halfway through the evening while Elizabeth chatted with Charlotte on the side of the room.

Sir Clement walked up to her and admired her cleavage for an odiously long time — Elizabeth had taken to wearing the most modestly cut dresses she owned, but Mama had absolutely refused to pay for the dress she'd wanted that would have covered almost all her shoulders. It would have looked dowdy in any case. The stink of whiskey from Sir Clement's breath filled the air.

He asked without moving his eyes away from her breasts, "Miss Bennet, I beg you for another dance."

Enough was enough.

With a sweet smile Elizabeth said, "A dance with you would delight me — oh, my poor foot." She winced theatrically widening her eyes with fake pain. "It is twinging dreadfully. Like it was stepped on by a clumsy oaf earlier this evening. I think it happened during the first dance of the night. I do not believe I will dance again tonight. A dreadful disappointment to not dance with _you_."

Sir Clement's face flashed with anger. "I understand _completely,_ madam. It is a great disappointment for _you_." He leered at her. "So long as no one else dances with you tonight, I'll let you have your game. But not forever." He stalked off with a stiff proud back and high shoulders.

"Oh, Eliza, you should apologize to him. He will marry you, despite your situation. Even though you are so pretty, you should not expect to win another man with such consequence."

Elizabeth looked at Charlotte in frank shock. "You cannot be serious! Actually marry Sir Clement? _Never_. You saw how he treated poor Lady Emily. Even if he were not past forty, I would not consider him due to that alone."

"It was a marriage arranged by their parents. He will treat the wife of his widowhood who he _chose_ very differently."

"He is _not_ a good man."

" _That_ has nothing to do with anything. You could keep him happy if you did not fight him so, and he would treat you well. If you ensure a decent settlement is made upon you, you will never need to worry, even if he does drink himself to death."

"I hope you are here to act as an _advocatus diaboli_ for that is the most awful nonsense I have ever heard."

"It is not." Charlotte wrung her hands together nervously. "You are prejudiced and silly when you say this. You have daily in front of you a challenge to the wisdom of your notions. Look at how happy Jane is. You advised her strenuously against the marriage, but even you must admit she is not unhappy."

"I admit Jane is not unhappy." Elizabeth grimaced. Of course she did not wish her sister to be unhappy, but the way Jane could flatter her husband's idiocies and fully participate in the awe he held Mr. Collins in made Elizabeth think far less of her sister. She no longer felt close to Jane; their opinions were so different. "I was mistaken in Jane's character when I counseled against the marriage, and I suppose it is fortunate she ignored me, but such a match would not do for me."

"Sir Clement, whatever you hold against him, is not stupid. Besides such matters are not important. Once you have a child and are used to presiding over Netherfield, all of the other ideas you have would fade away. You will learn to focus on your house and family. You are still very young, but to be your own mistress, and with such a great establishment, that would be a good thing indeed."

"Good God! You _are_ serious. You want me to marry him." Elizabeth had not talked about Sir Clement except in the letters she wrote to Fitzwilliam. "I never dreamed you would tell me to sell myself in that way."

"And _I_ never dreamed you would throw away a man who has at least three thousand a year after his debts and such substantial consequence. I thought your dislike would disappear once you knew you could secure him."

"It shall _never_ disappear."

"Don't be a fool. I wish I could attract a gentleman like Sir Clement. No matter how old he is, or what his faults, or how he drinks… No one will _ever_ look at me. And when a gentleman looks at you, _you_ spit his feelings back into his face as though they had no meaning. Someday you will be tired of depending on Jane's generosity, and you will know you were a _fool_ when you refused the widowed baronet who wanted you when you were a _child_."

"I am nineteen. I have been out for years. I shall _never_ regret refusing a man I despise."

"You are a child and a _fool_. Maybe you won't regret because you'll find some other _fool_ , one even richer than Sir Clement, who will marry you, and you will never understand what it is like… You are a spoiled girl who doesn't deserve to be so handsome."

Elizabeth ground her teeth together. "Is _that_ what you think of me? You are jealous because I look better than you—"

"I don't give a tuppence for you being prettier or luckier than me. But when you throw away your best hope for a good establishment. Eliza, _your father is dead_. Things are different for you than they were."

"So you are not jealous, you only wish me to live the life you want. I will never wish it."

"You are too young to know yourself. You are too young to have a right to make such a choice. If you apologize to Sir Clement, he will not hold your pique against you. He is infatuated and will give you whatever you desire."

"I would prefer to be a dependent spinster than married to _him_. I might rather _starve_."

Elizabeth left Charlotte and marched out to a balcony. Charlotte only was so angry because she cared and was worried for her own future. She shouldn't despise her friend. But Elizabeth did not think they could be such close friends as before. Georgiana would never suggest such a thing.

But Georgiana was even more blessed, and even more a child than Elizabeth. Charlotte would sneer bitterly and say that _of course_ the girl with such a large fortune could be as choosy as she wished.

Why couldn't Sir Clement have stayed in his own neighborhood? He was ruining everything.

Hopefully his anger at her rudeness would drive him away. But he was a dog who wanted a scrap of meat. She could push him away, but he'd return to beg again and again. He wouldn't learn until someone kicked him.

The air was cold and the wind nipped at her face. Mr. Collins still had every habit of subservience towards Sir Clement, and Mama would be so angry. The only reason things had not come to a head yet was because he waited to beg her hand until the mourning period for his wife was done. Not out of respect, but because he didn't want to offend the neighborhood further.

There would be a great to-do when she refused him. Mama would cut off all of her pocket money, and maybe Mr. Collins would demand she be expelled from the house.

Even though Jane was married to his son, their position was precarious. Mr. Collins had the soul of a tyrant, and he could cause trouble. He might demand Elizabeth accept his old friend, or else he would throw everyone but Jane out. Well, Elizabeth would not accept him. Mama enjoyed wasting all her income on fripperies, but it was sufficient money for food, clothes and lodging.

No one _needed_ more. The Gardiners would also support them if necessary. She could live as Georgiana's companion when her friend came out. Mr. Collins could threaten her family, but he could not _hurt_ them.

Elizabeth took in deep breaths of the cold air and shivered as she ran her fingers over the smooth wrought iron railings. It was freezing. She turned to reenter the ballroom, but Sir Clement had stepped out onto the balcony, blocking her view of lamps and candles.

A shiver of fear ran down Elizabeth's spine and into her stomach. He was a solidly built man with wide shoulders and thick muscled arms. His frame took up the entire space of the doorway. Elizabeth tried to push past Sir Clement, but he blocked her. For a moment Elizabeth thought about shouting at the people in the room. But Elizabeth disregarded her anxiety. She was in Meryton's assembly hall, almost in the view of all her friends. Besides, Sir Clement was, despite everything, a gentleman.

"Is a cold night, is it not? I had just decided to reenter. If you will excuse me." Elizabeth tried to push his arm and body to the side again. He moved forward with small steps, and Elizabeth unconsciously backed away from him, until she was crowded against the iron railing in the corner of the balcony. She realized that because she was squashed against the outside wall of the assembly hall, she was no longer visible through the windows.

Sir Clement loomed over Elizabeth.

She drew herself up, trying to hold her body so it didn't touch his, but not quite succeeding. He stood so close that the edge of her knee brushed against his calf. She said haughtily, "This is inappropriate. Sir Clement, I beg you to move aside."

"I am tired of the flirtatious manner in which you toy with me."

It was irrational, but Elizabeth's heart beat in a shaky pace. He had stepped so close to her, and she could not back away further. She wanted to slap him or scream. That would make a scene. Nothing was truly the matter. She was just frightened.

"I…" Elizabeth swallowed. "I never flirted with you."

"You think you do not like me, but deep inside you do. Women always pretend not to know their true desires."

"I will _never_ —"

He silenced Elizabeth by placing his hands over her mouth and squeezing it shut. "I know what you want better than you."

He kissed her, pressing Elizabeth with his body into the wall. She ineffectually tried to get away, but his arms were too strong for her to wrench away from him, and his legs held her in place so she could not get the leverage to kick him or strike him with her knee.

His lips were wet and gross, and Elizabeth had never felt so helpless. He tasted and smelled of strong alcohol. She desperately tried to think, but with his mouth on top of hers, she could not even scream. How could this be happening right here in the assembly rooms? He would surely stop, and she would be able to escape.

Elizabeth went stiff and waited. He pressed a hand against her breast, and her body ineffectually tried to shrink away from him.

Her mother's voice sounded from behind them. "Lizzy, you've agreed to marry Sir Clement! I am so happy I shall die of it."

Sir Clement released Elizabeth with a satisfied sneer that glinted in the cold moonlight. Mama and Charlotte and Jane stood behind the door, and then Elizabeth saw half the neighborhood gathered round them.

"Yes," he said, "Miss Bennet has accepted my offer of marriage. It is less than a year after my dear wife's death, but when she kissed me so sweetly…"

Jane, Mama and Charlotte gathered around Elizabeth, embracing her and exclaiming their happiness.

Elizabeth began to exclaim a denial, but Charlotte grabbed Elizabeth in a tight embrace that kept her from speaking. She whispered into Elizabeth's ear, "I will not let you destroy this for yourself."

Their neighbors smiled and shook Sir Clement's hand. Elizabeth's heart still hammered, and she felt confused at what had happened. A natural repugnance to talking about being touched and kissed kept her from jerking herself out of Charlotte's grasp and screaming at him. Charlotte and Mrs. Bennet pulled and pushed her along, dragging her out of the room quickly. Charlotte did not allow anyone to congratulate Elizabeth, and Elizabeth had been stuffed into the carriage before she realized that everyone would believe Sir Clement's story because she didn't immediately accuse him of attacking her.

Charlotte climbed into the carriage after Jane and Mrs. Bennet.

Mr. Collins stuck his wrinkled face against the window. "Take Lizzy to Longbourn, Clement and I will be along by horse in half an hour."

Collins shouted at the driver, and the carriage jolted off. Elizabeth felt numb as the carriage bounced heavily over the country roads. It was like she had been defiled and should burn her lips off to get rid of the taint.

Mrs. Bennet exclaimed again, "I am so happy! I shall go distracted. Lizzy, you have done so well! A baronet! My wonderful daughter."

Jane added her congratulations in a soft voice, "I did not realize you liked him so very well. I am pleased you do."

"I am not engaged! I did not agree to marry him."

Mrs. Bennet smiled serenely at Elizabeth. "You kissed him as though you did."

"He forced himself upon me — I will not, no matter what the neighborhood thinks—"

"Heavens, Lizzy. After everyone saw you kissing him so, we will all be quite ruined if you do not marry Sir Clement. Think of the scandal — think of your sisters."

"I did not agree to marry him."

"That doesn't matter. You must now." Mrs. Bennet's smile glowed in the light from the swinging carriage lamp.

"I will not—"

"Everyone shall know you are a dreadfully loose and immoral girl if you do not."

"I do not care."

"You are in the first flush of anger, once you calm down, you will see that you absolutely _must_ marry Sir Clement. Oh! I am so happy. Charlotte, that was a very clever idea you suggested to me and Sir Clement."

Elizabeth felt as though her bones were frozen beneath the muscles. "Cha-Charlotte. You…you su-suggested…"

"I did not want to watch you destroy your life. You won't ruin your family and your reputation. You now need to marry him."

"B-b-but…"

"Stop being a ninny. In ten years' time you will agree I prevented a terrible mistake."

It hurt worse than the slimy disgust and the way her lips still were dirty. This sensation of being stabbed by her dear friend. Elizabeth slumped against the textured cushions of the carriage. It was as though she was detached from her own body, and the evening had happened to a different woman.

Jane said, "Oh, if you hadn't agreed to marry him, it was quite wrong of Sir Clement to kiss you that way. But it shows how he loves you. He was overcome by his passion. How romantic. You have thought far too ill of him; you must marry him; things will be ever so much calmer and easier. It will be a great bother if after everyone believes you to be engaged, you refuse him after all. Papa Collins would be so angry — Lizzy, do say you will marry him."

Longbourn looked inviting when they arrived home, with lights flaming out of the drawing room and kitchen windows. Elizabeth stiffly walked inside with Mrs. Bennet and Charlotte. She went to the drawing room, while Jane walked upstairs to check on her son, and Mrs. Bennet bustled about exclaiming to Mrs. Hill and all of the servants that Elizabeth was to be married.

Charlotte sat down next to her, and tried to take Elizabeth's hand and say something warm. Elizabeth snarled at her former friend, " _Stay_ away."

Charlotte looked hurt but determined. When she did not leave, Elizabeth walked to the opposite side of the room and grabbed a chair which she pulled to an isolated corner of the room, far from the fireplace. There was nowhere nearby to sit down.

Elizabeth felt relief when Charlotte did not follow her, but it was cold in this corner of the room and Elizabeth shivered uncontrollably.

Everyone insisted she must marry Sir Clement. Must she?

Even though she hadn't rung, the maid Sarah walked up to Elizabeth. "Are you well, ma'am?" She looked at her with sincere concern.

It had been indiscreet, but Elizabeth had spoken enough with Sarah for the maid to know Elizabeth despised Sir Clement.

Elizabeth tried to smile and brush at the curls of hair spilling around her ears. Her hand shook. Hoping desperately to find at least one friendly listener, when her friend and family had betrayed her, Elizabeth said, "He pushed me into the corner and then kissed me while I tried to get away, and then he told everyone I'd agreed to marry him."

"That _horrible_ man. I knew you wouldn't marry him."

"Mama and everyone insist I must."

"You are too good for him. You won't. I'll bring you some hot chocolate with a little rum. It will perk you right up, Ma'am, and you'll be warm and comfortable when you tell them you won't."

"Thank you. Thank you."

Sarah smiled and bustled off. Elizabeth cried. Even though she was a servant, having one person's support made her feel enormously more confident.

When Sir Clement and Mr. Collins arrived, Elizabeth had reseated herself near the fire, and she slowly sipped the hot chocolate. Charlotte sat on the far edge of the couch, nervously worrying at her gloves, and she looked occasionally as though she wished to approach Elizabeth again and speak to her, but did not dare. Each time Charlotte looked at her, Elizabeth glared angrily back.

She would claw Charlotte if her friend tried to make her listen.

Sir Clement went to Elizabeth and reached for her hand. "My dear, we wondered when—"

Elizabeth splashed the hot chocolate into his face.

"You damn, vile, vicious, immoral, indebted, stupid, idiotic, imbecilic—" Elizabeth breathed heavily. The cocoa dripped down his face. "How dare you — even if my mother and friend suggested it, to accost and force yourself upon me, my father was a gentleman, I…I should…I should—"

Elizabeth tried to slap him. However, Sir Clement caught her arm. She struggled to free it, and when she could not, the horrified helpless feeling returned. He smiled at her. Neither Mama nor Jane looked as though they would do anything to help her. Mr. Collins appeared amused.

" _C'est charmante_. My dear, once we are married, I shall expect you to treat me with more respect in public. In private…I enjoy your spirit. Your…liveliness. I will enjoy your attempts to hit me."

"I refuse. I will not marry you. If you were the last man on earth, I would throw myself off a cliff rather than allow the human race to continue."

"Lizzy. _My_ Lizzy, you have no choice. The entire neighborhood saw you kiss me, and everyone knows that you have agreed to marry me. You are mine."

As he spoke, Sir Clement's attention wavered and his grip loosened. Elizabeth wrenched her wrist away from him and backed away, subconsciously moving towards the middle of the room, so she would not be trapped by his body again.

"They remember how you treated Lady Emily. I have grown up here, people will believe me when I say you forced yourself on me. You will be the one who is despised."

"They will not." Charlotte spoke clearly, though she refused to look directly at Elizabeth. "This is what is best for you. I will tell each of our acquaintances that you wished to kiss Sir Clement to see what it would be like."

"You will? Of course you shall. And those of our neighbors who like a scandal shall believe you." Elizabeth closed her eyes and imagined what Fitzwilliam would say to her. He had marched off and faced death to do his duty. It would be wrong to let Sir Clement succeed, and it would destroy her every hope of happiness.

"Given my fiancée's behavior" — Sir Clement spoke with a vicious smile — "we ought not wait long. Mrs. Bennet, would you like for your daughter to be married by special license?"

"Yes! Oh, yes! Just like a Lord. But you are a baronet."

"I shall acquire one, and then in two or three days—"

Elizabeth cried out, "You cannot force me. I know that if I do not agree, no marriage is valid."

Sir Clement shrugged.

"I assure you. No scandal will make me."

Mr. Collins stood and grinned like a diabolical cat. He rubbed his hands together. "So you do not care for your family? Think about Mary, and Kitty, and Lydia. Yes, Lydia, not yet quite fourteen, and her sister shall destroy every hope she has to marrying well."

"Lydia and Kitty do not need to marry for many years." Elizabeth imagined all of her neighbors believing everything _Charlotte_ would say. "It will be a long past story before then." She hoped she was right. It could not affect her choice, but she would feel guilty if her sisters were harmed by such a scandal.

Mr. Collins gleefully stood, pressing his hands together like a demented bald Madonna. "If you do not agree, _you_ shall…force me to throw out all of your family. Jane is a dutiful daughter, but I would give no support to any others."

Elizabeth had expected him to say that. She did not know if he was serious, but she knew she must ignore his blackmail. "If you choose to throw us out, you shall throw us out. But it is on your head, not mine."

Mrs. Bennet grabbed Elizabeth and shook her. "Heavens! Why am I cursed by you? You ungrateful girl! You horrid, dreadful, ungrateful girl. Do you not care for us?"

"You care nothing for me."

Mr. Collins spoke again, "I am quite serious. I will turn all of you out."

"It makes no difference to me. I know what my mother's finances are, and while she would despise the necessity, it is possible to feed a family of our size and to keep clothes and a roof, and even to have a maid of all work on two hundred pounds a year. My life would be far worse married to _him_ than our lives would be on a tiny income."

Mr. Collins stared at Elizabeth, and she stared back. At last he swore, "Damn. Damn. Damn. Clement, she is insane — she always has been. Her father let her read until the brains bled out. I did not think to stop her from doing so in time. I have no notion how to work upon her. Damned learned women. They shouldn't be allowed to read anything but the Bible."

Mrs. Bennet wailed.

Elizabeth realized that she was victorious over at least him and grinned. She felt as though she were in control of her destiny again. "You cannot make me. This is not some barbarous society where women are the property of their parents. I am my own person, and I shall not marry Sir Clement." She turned to the baronet who watched her with that intent predatory smile.

It made Elizabeth shiver as though he would still find a way to turn the tables on her. She would never again step close enough to let him grab her. But she could shout at him. "You are a despicable, vile object. I have despised you from the first day that I knew you. I will never, never, never marry you."

That predatory smile widened.

"Tomorrow I shall go to my aunt and uncle in London. Mr. Collins, it would make your grandson unhappy to be deprived of his aunts for no reason, but it makes no difference to me."

Elizabeth marched from the room, as Mrs. Bennet cried out, "Why are you such a horrid daughter?"

Once alone in her small room, Elizabeth slumped on the bed and wrapped her arms around a heavy goose feather pillow and cried. Worse than being kissed and the fright she had taken was the betrayal by Charlotte and her mother. Elizabeth felt that if she had her way, she would never speak to either of them again.

She thought about Georgiana's letters, and the day they had declared each other to be sisters. She remembered Fitzwilliam's face, his hair blown by the wind, the day he left from London. Elizabeth thought about the letter from him in her dresser: _Thank you, and thank you, and thank you_.

She had friends yet. Even their maid Sarah, who had brought her the chocolate.

So long as there was someone who did not despise her, she thought she could face everything. Things would be far better tomorrow. Mr. Collins would probably not drive away Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth's younger sisters. Sometime in the afternoon she would reach her aunt and uncle's house, and then, since Georgiana was in London to wait for Fitzwilliam's return, she would call on her the next day.

There had been a knocking and banging of doors, candles moving to and fro in the hallway, and many footsteps. Whispered conversations. The carriage had clattered away, likely taking Charlotte to her house.

At last the house was quiet and it seemed everyone was asleep. Some anxious instinct made Elizabeth want to explore. She left her room and went downstairs. A light shone from under the library door, and Elizabeth heard a muffled conversation.

She cautiously and silently put her ear against the door.

"She is mine. I decided she was mine when I saw her attending so sweetly to that bitch my father hitched me to. She leaned over to listen to her, and I could see down that dress. She has such a fine pair. I _will_ have her."

"Clement." Mr. Collins's voice was slurred. "I can't do anything. This is England in the modern era, not some wild Scottish borderland where you can seize the woman you want and force her to your will. There can be no marriage where the woman does not consent."

"The deuce! Collins! You owe me. Remember, you _owe_ me."

"What would you have me do? It would do no good to throw her family out. She is immune to appeals of reason or social sanction or familial responsibility. What can I do?"

There was silence. Elizabeth's hair stood on end as she stood in the dim light and heard Sir Clement's heavy feet pace back and forward. He then sat down in a chair that creaked a little as he settled his weight on it.

"You are her guardian—"

"That has nothing to do with the matter," Mr. Collins interrupted testily, "and it is Mrs. Bennet."

"It is the same matter. The same matter. She will do what you tell her." There was a long pause, during which Elizabeth heard the harsh sound of her own breathing and feared that the two men would somehow hear her. "Lock her up. Lock her up until she obeys. It is legal. Stick a lock on the outside of her door and board up the windows so she cannot jump out. I'd have you stick her in the cellar if it were summer, but I do not wish _my_ lovely to catch a cold. She likes her books and walks too much. She'll cave eventually. It doesn't signify much how long it takes. Just ensure no one speaks to her except to ask if she's changed her mind."

"If I do that, it shall be a great scandal. Miss Bennet is well-liked. It is simply not done to lock up young ladies. It is just not done. Clement, perhaps you should find some other young woman. Almost any lady without much fortune would be happy to accept you."

There was a rattling bang that made Elizabeth start in fright. "Mine. Mine. I've kissed her and marked her. Mine. The sly baggage is _mine_. I will bed her again and again until she likes it. Mine."

Elizabeth's heart beat in her ears.

"Look… It is not so easy." Mr. Collins's voice was pleading, almost whiny.

"You damned, low thing. You want to bilk me for more money!" There was a wooden slam. "I'll give you your damned money. I'll give you one thousand pounds on the day I marry Eliza. But never, never again forget who I am."

Elizabeth heard him push the chair away and stomp towards the door. She fled upstairs in fright. She needed to leave the house before the morning. Mama would let Mr. Collins lock her up. She had to get to London, even if she needed to walk for lack of a fare. It would be safer on the road than here in the house where she was born.

Elizabeth hurriedly looked through her clothes for a heavy traveling dress and her best winter boots. Once they were found and laid out on the bed, she went to her dresser and pulled out the bit of pocket money she had secreted. It was not much, as most money she received was used to purchase paper and postage.

Elizabeth was about to pull off her awful evening dress and change into the simple, easy-to-button traveling dress when her door was pushed open.

Mr. Collins stood in the open doorway, holding a candle high. It made the shadows on his face orange and craggy. Elizabeth's heart raced, and she knew her hope of escape was gone when he looked at the clothes piled on her bed and said with a hungry smile, "Why, Miss Lizzy, where did you plan to go?"


	7. Chapter 7

The newly minted Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam admired his fresh uniform in the mirror of the club's entryway before hurrying up to join Stanley and Wickham. Fitzwilliam should be home in a month, and with a Colonel's commission of his own. They had always been close as the second sons who intended to fight for God and country.

By Jove, but he was glad his cousin had lived through it. Fitzwilliam had a much rougher time of it in India than he'd had with his regiment in Quebec waiting for a second invasion by the rebels which never came. All he had needed to fight were the ferocious winters. And he'd been helped in that struggle by the French lasses who had been very willing to help keep a dashing officer warm.

Likely there were no lasses in Tippoo's dungeons.

Colonel Fitzwilliam resettled the epaulets on his shoulders so they hung perfectly and marched up the stairs. He flung the door open, to see his cousin Stanley and their old friend Wickham ladling rum punch from a large silver bowl into their glasses. Colonel Fitzwilliam gestured at himself. "Behold the conquering hero!"

Wickham laughed. "Richard, you've been a colonel for a full three months. Stop bragging."

"The philosophers say happiness lies in never losing the appreciation for what you have."

"Bah, the philosophers." Stanley spoke as he swallowed a full glass of punch, "They know nothing."

"If his time in India has not changed him, Fitzwilliam will argue that with you once he returns." Colonel Fitzwilliam filled a cup of his own with the hot fruity rum mixture. "What is the game tonight?"

"Cards, cards. What does it matter — I shall lose."

Wickham laughed. "Don't you enjoy the playing?"

"You enjoy it."

Both gentlemen frowned at Stanley, who scowled at his glass of punch. Stanley lost most of the time, but being a terrible card player never bothered him, and he never lost more than he could afford. Besides, Wickham was usually the one who won it off him. Richard had always thought it was a tacit way Stanley ensured his best friend could afford to keep up with him.

"You're in a foul mood today," Colonel Fitzwilliam at last said.

"The best damn thing about Fitzwilliam returning is that I shall be able to let him take the management of Georgiana."

"As a fellow officer of his Majesty's Army, I fear you may underestimate the demands placed on the time of the Colonel with a regiment."

"You certainly have time to play cards with us. It does not take so much time to manage a girl."

"I daresay you're right," Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. "She spends most of the year at that school in any case. Has she made any new friends beyond that Lizzy she constantly writes to? I meant to ask her when we talked after she arrived in London, but she kept the subject on the piano and our hope that Fitzwilliam returns before Christmas."

Stanley's face became pained and disgusted, and he poured himself another cup from the rapidly diminishing punch bowl. "Can we speak of something else?"

Wickham dealt out the red-backed cards. Colonel Fitzwilliam talked about how his father had just leased land to a man named Arkwright who was building giant waterwheels to power a machine to spin thread and weave cloth.

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, "I wish Father hadn't leased the land. He buys the cotton from the rebels in the south of America. It just makes them richer."

"Forget it, Richard." Wickham laughed. "Stop fighting that war; you lost."

" _We_ lost."

"Ha. I suppose you are right. Never understood why we were so damned eager to keep those backwoods boors. Live and let live. That's my motto."

"Rebellion against his majesty could not be allowed to go unchallenged. They took up arms against the king and—"

"And won." Wickham laughed again. "You lost a hundred million pounds and a war with the Frog eaters and still let them go in the end."

Damn. Wickham annoyed him. "They aren't rustic boors either. I knew many men loyal to the king who'd fled to Canada. The colonists have different manners, but they are just as sound as any London tradesmen."

"Ha, ha, ha. I'd like to get rid of all the Cits as well. Perhaps next time _they_ will rebel. Did you meet any _actual_ savages, besides the Frogs, of course?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam won a trick and pulled the money away from Wickham's side of the table, taking a petty pleasure in Wickham's flash of irritation. He had known Wickham for many years, and while Stanley and Wickham were the closest of friends, Colonel Fitzwilliam had not liked the clergyman since he'd returned from Canada.

Stanley laughed at Wickham's suggestion to get rid of all the tradesmen, pounding the table. Then he giggled and drank more.

Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned with worry. "Stanley, perhaps you're drinking a bit too fast."

"It is medicine." Colonel Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes, and Stanley laughed again. "Argue with Wicky again, it is what I need to hear for my mood. Go on."

Wickham exclaimed, "I am willing to argue with Richard. Anything to entertain my patron."

"What is bothering you? Is it that matter about Georgiana you mentioned before? She is getting older — does she have an inappropriate infatuation she wishes to pester you about?"

"Ha! That might be even worse."

Colonel Fitzwilliam had always been fond of Georgiana. "Fitzwilliam will return soon. They were close. He'll help her with whatever the matter is."

Stanley shook his head rapidly and almost fell over. Laughing, he tried to pour himself more, but dumped a ladle full of punch onto the table. The room filled with the scent of the spilled alcohol. Colonel Fitzwilliam forcefully pulled the ladle and the bowl out of his cousin's reach when Stanley attempted to repeat the action.

"By Jove, Fitzwilliam is of no use to Georgiana." Stanley giggled. "Weren't second sons supposed to come back from India wealthy beyond imagining? Not with just an improved commission? Hahahahaha."

Wickham said, " _I_ wish Fitzwilliam had come back wealthy beyond imagining."

Stanley replied, "It'd make no difference to _you_. Hahahaha. He won more off you than he lost, and he never gave loans to anyone. You wouldn't cadge much off him."

Wickham shrugged. "It would have to be easier than getting my poorer parishioners to pay their tithes. I don't _care_ what their excuse is. And then I have to sell the damned wheat I get them to cough up."

At times, Colonel Fitzwilliam believed Wickham had missed his true vocation when he took orders.

"Georgiana. Can you at least say what is the matter with her?" Colonel Fitzwilliam was concerned and worried.

"Yes, that. Hahahahaha. Georgie is such a naïve fond thing. No brains, just like a well-bred lady. You need to find one without any breeding for brains, but then you can't marry them."

Stanley frowned at the lines in the wood of their table.

The silence lingered, and Stanley switched to staring at the bottom of his empty cup. Then he tried to get a last few drops to dribble into his mouth. Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, "By Gad, just tell the bleeding story."

Stanley pouted. "You don't need to be so grouchy. We are both friends and family. That friend she natters endlessly about, that Lizzy. Ha! She is just a sly fortune hunter. I knew when she visited Georgie for a long house visit that year we thought Fitzwilliam had died."

"Truly? But Georgie always has been so fond of her."

"Idiotically fond of her. Like a woman. Idiotic. Hahahahaha."

Stanley reached across the table to grab at the punch bowl again, but Fitzwilliam picked it up and set it on the floor. "You do not need more. You can barely handle what you've already had."

"Handle, like a woman. Hahahaha. Like handling a woman."

Wickham laughed along with Stanley.

"She was so beautiful. Her neat figure, the curve of her bosom, just fifteen and with a face like a creature of heaven. She smiled and played with Georgiana, but her eyes when she looked at me… If she'd had even ten thousand pounds, I'd have married her."

Wickham sighed with lust at the description.

"Yes, but…" Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head a little confused. "Why are you so certain this Lizzy is a fortune hunter?"

Stanley looked blankly at Colonel Fitzwilliam, as though he were the idiot. "She was seducing me. Of course she was a fortune hunter."

Yes. Of course. Colonel Fitzwilliam loved his cousin, but he had a tendency to be rather self-centered. If he liked a girl without a dowry, _obviously_ it meant she had used some alluring trick to trap him. Besides, if a poor girl hoped to marry the far richer brother of a friend, it would signify nothing.

"She found a victim at last, an impoverished baronet. He only is worth a few thousand after his debts, so she has made one last attempt at the richer prize. She sent Georgiana a letter filled with some nonsense about how she is being forced to marry him. So Georgiana begged me to 'rescue' her friend." Stanley laughed darkly. "It brought back every memory I had of that girl's clear skin and slender body. I confess I was tempted to go and steal her from that baronet for half a minute. So that is why I am drinking."

"Are you certain the story is fabricated?"

Stanley looked blankly at him again. "She is a penniless girl living on the charity of her relations — of course she would not refuse a baronet."

"Women can be odd." Colonel Fitzwilliam tugged at his ear, worried for the friend Georgiana always talked about. "There are many reasons a woman would refuse a suitable match."

"Hahahahahaha. _You_ are the fond fool." Stanley picked up the brass bell from the table used to call the wait staff and wildly rang it. The uniformed footmen rushed in, and Stanley shouted to have his carriage prepared. He turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. "If you shall not let me continue to drink, I'm going to find a lady of the night who looks like Georgie's Lizzy and be done with the whole matter." Stanley stood shakily and pumped his hips obscenely to show what he planned to do with the light skirt. He lost his balance and sprawled on the floor with laughter.

Wickham went to the door and called after the footman to also have his carriage prepared. "I shall follow your example. I certainly want for a girl as well. Describe this Lizzy in greater detail."

Stanley stumbled unevenly down the stairs, nearly taking a serious spill. Colonel Fitzwilliam followed them. Wickham had _certainly_ missed his calling when he became a clergyman.

The two curricles were assembled outside, beautiful vehicles built for speed. A pair of gorgeous young grays stood in front of Stanley's open-air vehicle. A set of lanterns hung swinging off the sides of the curricles, and the small men who served as grooms were ready to jump onto the seats behind the carriages as soon as their masters settled in.

The London smog, thick due to all the winter fires burning, kept the stars from being visible, and the only lights were those shining from the insides of the clubs and a watchman who walked towards them, swinging his lantern. The air was frozen, nipping at Colonel Fitzwilliam's face.

When he tried to step up into the curricle, Stanley missed the step and fell splayed on the ground. With a chill of anxiety, Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed Stanley's arm. "Call a hack chaise to send you home. You are too damn foxed to drive."

"Nonsense. Rank nonsense. I am perfectly able." With a show of drunken strength, he ripped his arm out of Colonel Fitzwilliam's grasp and jumped into the carriage seat. Stanley shouted at Wickham, "I'll race you to Madame's."

"Icy roads, you fool. You don't race on a night like this." Colonel Fitzwilliam held the halter of Stanley's horse to prevent him from speeding off.

Stanley slapped Colonel Fitzwilliam's hands away with the horse whip, and then set his carriage off at a run, nearly running over his cousin's foot.

Colonel Fitzwilliam swore and snarled in anger as the pair of carriages raced away. He hoped to God there were no pedestrians in their way. They turned the corner onto the next street at a high pace, and Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed the halter and saddle of his horse, which had also been brought out front.

He was about to vault himself in the saddle, when from the direction his cousin and Wickham had driven he heard a splintering crunch deadened by distance.


	8. Chapter 8

At first Elizabeth thought of her imprisonment as an absurd lark: Mr. Collins would lock her up, and eventually they would all get tired of the whole matter, and she would be allowed to go to London and the Gardiners. Upon finding her dressing to leave, Mr. Collins had called up a footman, and he had all of Elizabeth's coats and shoes removed.

She had contemplated running past him and the footman. But it would've been absurd to try walking all the way to London in her stockings at the start of winter. No matter how determined she was, she would catch a dreadful cold, and that would be the end of it.

While the footman went through her things, Elizabeth sat on her bed, holding her head high and her shoulders straight. Eventually the effort of sitting so firmly caused her back to ache. She refused to let the pain make her relax her posture. Mr. Collins stood in the doorway, as though he planned to stop her if she made a dash for it. He probably did.

His paunch stuck out from his overly tight coat and waistcoat, and Mr. Collins looked old and weak as he held a large candleholder high to light the servant's search of her room.

The noise woke her family. Mrs. Bennet bustled out into the hallway, with her nightgown and voluminous robes waving around her. Her hands fluttered nervously. "Mr. Collins, Mr. Collins! What is going on?"

"Your daughter." His voice was harsh, and he snarled out each syllable. "She was to make a mockery of me. A mockery of every authority. She planned to flee our _authority_ in the middle of the night."

"Oh heavens! What shall become of us? Lizzy! How could you? And after you refused kind and generous Sir Clement. Oh. Oh. Oh. Mr. Collins certainly will throw us all out."

"No." Mr. Collins laid a wrinkled hand on her mother's shoulder. "Sir Clement's generosity knows no bounds. He told me before he left that he will still marry Elizabeth, even though she is a wicked and troublesome girl."

"He is the best of men. And so kind. But Elizabeth will not have him."

Elizabeth's sisters woke and gathered to watch the scene. The footman went in and out of Elizabeth's room, piling clothes and shoes and books and her collection of letters on the hallway floor. They peered in through the door at Elizabeth's angry red face. Elizabeth clenched her fist and sat even straighter.

Mr. Collins replied to Mrs. Bennet. "Then she shall stay in this room forever. She has been a disobedient girl, and I will lock her up until she sees reason and agrees to marry my friend."

"Oh my. Oh my. But, Lizzy is so stubborn. If she does not agree…what will the neighbors say? It shall be a greater scandal than if we sent her to London after everyone saw her seduce Sir Clement. For a little while we can put out that she is ill, but the servants, the servants will talk."

"She flouted your authority as well as mine. The scandal is nothing to letting such a creature get away with her wickedness."

"But my friends will talk…"

"Mrs. Bennet. You cannot be blamed for the wicked disobedience, the vile ingratitude, the complete imbecilic insensibility of Miss Lizzy. Some children are born with the devil in them, and there is nothing which discipline can do. But, if you do not make an attempt to correct Lizzy's behavior, if you do not let me do as I must to help her recover her sanity, I will have no choice but to send you and your daughters away from this house, the house they were born in."

Mrs. Bennet paled, and her face turned gray and small. "You could not truly do so, not when my Jane has married your son."

"I would. I would never let little William see his grandmother again."

Mrs. Bennet swayed in horror at the suggestion. She adored her grandson.

"We have been friends." Mr. Collins laid his hand on Mrs. Bennet's shoulder again. "Let us not quarrel over this matter. Perhaps the scandal will be bad, but that shall be forgotten when your daughter is a lady and the wife of the baronet. Do you not want her to become Lady Elizabeth? Think about what your friends will say _then_."

"Yes. Yes. I would dearly like to see her be married so well." Mrs. Bennet pulled in a long shaky breath, and the nervousness left her posture. She stepped into Elizabeth's room. "You will. You will marry Sir Clement. He is the kindest, gentlest, and best man in England, and he does not deserve such a wicked girl as you, but you will marry him. Mr. Collins has my permission to do whatever is needed to make you see reason."

Elizabeth did not reply. She looked at her sisters gathered around. Jane held her heart-shaped face between her hands and muttered, "Oh. Oh." Jane's eyes darted backward and forward, and when her rotund husband joined her, she whispered to him, but when he looked at his father and shook his head, she nodded sadly.

Mary was pale and gripped a book. Kitty seemed torn between nervousness and amusement, while little Lydia giggled and smiled as though it was all a great joke.

During the course of the first day, Elizabeth wrote a letter to Georgiana, describing her predicament in what she hoped was humorous terms. They would give up soon enough, and a well-stocked mind must be a protection against boredom.

While Mr. Collins had taken all of her books, her blank paper and some ink had been left.

Elizabeth was not worried, though perhaps it would be absolutely impossible to visit London until long after Fitzwilliam returned home. She wrote a letter to her uncle, Mr. Gardiner, begging him to do something to force Mama to release her. Surely Mr. Gardiner would be able to do so.

Sarah agreed to post Elizabeth's letters and retrieve any reply. Elizabeth gave her what remained of her pocket money, which fortunately had already been in her pocket when Mr. Collins caught her, so that she could pay the postage.

The door was kept shut, and Mr. Collins had installed an extra deadbolt lock on the outside.

That evening Jane sat against her door and said, "Lizzy, can you hear me?"

"Jane. Jane. This is absurd. Surely you see that. Can you get me some shoes and try to get the key from Mr. Collins?"

"That would cause so much trouble. No. I can't do that. Lizzy, I talked to Sir Clement today."

Of course she did. Elizabeth remembered that Sir Clement had told Mr. Collins that she must only speak to those who would try to convince her to marry him.

"You've misjudged him. He was so worried about you, Lizzy." Jane's voice was appealing, sweet, and hateful. "He isn't a bad person, and he loves you very, very much. He wants to expand the library at Netherfield just for you. Isn't that kind? I've come to like him."

"Go away."

"He likes listening to you talk. He admires your spirit and liveliness. He isn't that old, and you always talked about not being bothered by superficial things. And he won't treat you the way he did his first wife."

Elizabeth shivered remembering how he forced her against the wall. "Jane, if you cannot talk about anything else, _go away_. I refuse to hear Sir Clement praised by anyone, even you."

"I will not. Not until you are sensible and admit you've taken an awful prejudice against poor Sir Clement. It was not kind of you to kiss him and then treat him in this manner."

"I _didn't_ kiss him! He forced himself on me."

"I asked him about that. He said your manner was very encouraging. Maybe you wanted him to kiss you, but did not realize it, but he could see it."

Instead of screaming, Elizabeth clumped her thick blankets around her ears and tried to not hear any more of what Jane said.

Elizabeth did so again when Jane came back the next day.

The second afternoon, Mary sat outside her door and read a long extract from a book about the duty of daughters to respect their guardians. Elizabeth said nothing to her either.

By the end of the first week something in Elizabeth began to crack.

She had not realized muscles could ache from too little use as well as too much. For several days she felt wild and nearly crazy for a walk. Her legs tingled with a need to move. The outside beckoned through her window, and she spent hours staring at the almost unchanging scene of Longbourn's front lawn and the bramble on the side. She'd never realized how often the cats would go back and forth during a day. She counted how many birds she saw. The last few leaves drifted down. The room was cold and her toes ached. She kept her blankets bundled around her all day long.

Even though Jane still said the same things about how kind Sir Clement was, Elizabeth wanted to reply just so she could use her voice again. She didn't.

The only person Elizabeth spoke to was Sarah when she changed Elizabeth's chamber pots and brought her food and water. Once she snuck Elizabeth a letter from Georgiana that had been posted the day of the assembly. The two girls exchanged letters about once a week, and a little more often when Georgiana was in London.

It was a bright and cheery letter, talking about dresses and music masters and novels, and their favorite subject: would Fitzwilliam be back before Christmas.

Elizabeth read the letter literally a hundred times. The letter from Fitzwilliam had been in her handbag, and it was now gone. She desperately hoped that Mr. Collins did not take it in his mind to burn her correspondence to spite her.

As she had some paper and ink, Elizabeth entertained herself during the first days by writing long letters, to Georgiana and to Fitzwilliam. She did not plan to post the letters to Fitzwilliam, as they were too whiny and self-indulgent. But railing against Mr. Collins, and Sir Clement, and most of all her mother, Charlotte, and Jane made her feel better.

Eventually Elizabeth's store of ink ran low, and she chose to save it for when she might wish to write an actual letter. After all, the only reason the ink and paper had not been removed was because the footman and Mr. Collins had not realized she could entertain herself with it.

The earliest date Georgiana or Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could have replied passed. Didn't she have _any_ friends? Not even her sister of the heart?

Elizabeth imagined that maybe Sarah had kept the money for herself instead of posting the letter. But she felt bad for the supposition. Letters occasionally went to the wrong place. Had she written the addresses neatly? Perhaps a gang of highwaymen had attacked the post carriage — such things did happen on rare occasions. She would absolutely not let herself feel abandoned.

The letter from Georgiana was read yet more times.

The room shrank each day. She had been moved into this room after her father's death and Jane's marriage. It was tiny, although she was better off than Kitty and Lydia who needed to share a room. It had barely enough space for her bed and dressers. Elizabeth could not properly pace. It took her seven steps to get from the window to the door. She walked in tiny circles.

It stank. She had no baths. When Elizabeth asked if she could be let out for one, Mr. Collins decided to stop permitting her dresses to be laundered. The smell wasn't noticeable normally, but when Sarah opened the door to take the waste from the chamber pot and bring the food, Elizabeth would be sensible of it.

At last, one week after the dramatic assembly, Sarah snuck two long letters to her, one from Georgiana and one from her uncle.

Elizabeth stared at them both with a bright, bright smile on her face. Georgiana's was thick and held more than one paper. Whatever had kept her from writing a prompt response, she had made up by sending a lengthy one. Elizabeth set it aside to read and reread at her leisure and opened Mr. Gardiner's first. Surely he had figured out a way to get her out of here, and that was why it had taken so long for him to reply.

Dear Lizzy,

I am shocked to hear your story. It is like a story out of a distant past. Yet, I have heard of similar things occurring in high families when great fortunes, or what seemed to the possessor to be a great fortune, were at stake. Still, I am very surprised that Sir Clement has bribed your guardians to overturn your refusal of his proposal.

I know for certain fact the story of a man who just a few years ago had as a ward the wealthy orphaned daughter of a friend. She was in love with his younger son, but desiring to create the largest fortune possible, he had that son given a commission that took him to India in the recent war and then locked his ward in a room for five months until she agreed to marry his older son.

If no gross physical abuse occurs and the necessities of life are provided, there are no limits on what a guardian might do. I delayed writing so I might speak with a friend who is a successful barrister, and he believed that even were I to spend several hundred pounds to challenge your mother's guardianship of you in court, it would uphold her rights.

Were you to escape, if asked, the court would send out men to return you to your mother's control.

It is a year and a half until your twenty-first birthday, and only then would you be able to completely disregard your mother's wishes. It is a very long time, and I would be shocked if your mother will ever force Mr. Collins to release you. He might leave you in the room out of spite, even after Sir Clement gives up.

I wish I had anything encouraging to say. Your situation is poor. I know you greatly dislike Sir Clement for his treatment of his late wife. It further speaks poorly of his character that he prompted Mr. Collins to treat you in this manner. However, while I hesitate to write this, you should marry him.

It is not an easy thing to be locked up for such a long time. And, from what you have written, I imagine the scandal must already be very great. It is likely that if you are kept in your room for the next two years, your reputation will be such that it will be impossible for you to marry afterwards. Sir Clement is a baronet, and a far better match than you can expect.

Even though his actions show a lack of character, they also display a great deal of affection and strength of feeling towards you. You may dislike him now, but many women grow to love their husbands over time, and many sorts of marriages can permit happiness. You have at least a possibility of happiness and contentment with him.

I am composing a lengthy letter to your mother, and I shall ride to Longbourn to speak to her at the first moment the rush of my business allows. I will do what I can to persuade her to release you. However, you know what her character is like. It is unlikely that I shall succeed.

Sincerely yours,

E Gardiner

Elizabeth felt frozen. Even Mr. Gardiner thought she should marry Sir Clement. He was a _good_ match.

One and a half years. Elizabeth looked wildly around the tight room. Never being able to walk, or bathe, or read, or do anything. The room was impossibly smaller than the tiny space it had been ten minutes previous.

Her heart beat hard.

Elizabeth hyperventilated as she opened Georgiana's letter. Georgiana violently denounced Sir Clement and Mr. Collins. Elizabeth smiled at her words and relaxed a little. She had the support of one person. Her truest sister.

Georgiana promised that she would make her brother Stanley do something to rescue her, and that if he would not, Fitzwilliam certainly would when his ship arrived.

Elizabeth remembered how Stanley had behaved with an odd mixture of silence and contempt the times she had visited Georgiana when he was present. He would not help her. But Fitzwilliam would. She hoped. Elizabeth closed her eyes and saw the words of his letter thanking her. The underlined "profoundly grateful." She had written so much to him, but Elizabeth knew she could only guess at what parts of his character were his, and which parts were her imagination. But, she would believe in him.

But what could he do?

If there was no legal way to remove her from this prison…she would break out and escape. And she would live with him and Georgiana, and she would hide whenever someone tried to take her away.

Except how could she escape?

She was being absurd. _No one_ could or would do anything. Fitzwilliam would be placed in prison if he tried to break her out, and Mr. Collins would use his pistol to stop him. She didn't want that. She was trapped.

Elizabeth continued to read Georgiana's letter. It ended with a promise that she would mail it the next day and a salutation. There was another page and Elizabeth opened it feeling confused.

Stanley is dead. The very night I received your letter, he was killed in a carriage accident. I have cried and cried for the past days.

Uncle Matlock took me to his London home, and I forgot I had not posted my letter to you until this morning. There has been so much to do, and I have not had time to pause. I've begged Uncle Matlock and Richard to do something to help you, but they refused.

Richard was strange and angry when I asked. He said that if you hadn't written to me, and if I didn't believe everything you said, then Stanley would still be alive. That makes no sense to me. I do not understand, but since Richard has refused to speak anything more on the matter. It makes no sense. I always believed he would have some sympathy. I believe my uncle told the servants at Matlock house to not let me receive letters from you, so I will give this letter to Mrs. West when I come to Darcy house to collect my things.

She will make sure I get any letter from you.

This has been the worst week of my life. You are in such horrid trouble, and Stanley died. I fear Fitzwilliam's ship has sunk, and he is dead, and we will not know for months or years. I know I should not entertain such melancholy thoughts, but I cannot help it. I am miserable and terrified for you.

Lizzy, promise me, on our bond as sisters, for we are more truly family than anyone else, my uncle and cousin will do nothing for you, and I do not consider them truly my relatives while they act so heartlessly. We still have each other. Promise me, swear that no matter what, you will not marry him.

You are not alone, even if they stop us from sharing more letters, I think of you every hour, and we will find some way. No matter what your mother or sister or anyone says, you cannot marry him. We will both marry men we love and be happy together.

Your loving sister,

G Darcy

Elizabeth wrote a letter she knew was incoherent to Fitzwilliam, and another to Georgiana, mourning her brother. Sarah took them from her with the remains of Elizabeth's meal and hid the letters inside her dress.

The next morning Elizabeth stared at the lawn — a fox had actually crossed in front of the window a half hour ago. Elizabeth hoped it got into the henhouse and killed all of Mr. Collins's poultry. She was interrupted from this contemplation when Mr. Collins unlocked the heavy pad he had installed on her door and marched into the middle of the room followed by a footman. "Letters! Damn girl! Telling vile lies about me. Disobeying, _again_. Well, we'll have a finish of that. I just dismissed your girl, and I will spread about the story that she stole from us. Which she has — _where_ is the letter?"

Elizabeth felt sick and guilty about Sarah losing her position. She should have expected this. Elizabeth solemnly watched Mr. Collins.

"I will have you stripped and searched! Don't doubt it. Give me the letter your uncle wrote to you."

Elizabeth realized that, obviously, Uncle Gardiner writing a letter her mother would show that she had communications with the outside. Hopefully, Mr. Collins knew nothing about the letters from Georgiana.

Elizabeth went to her dresser and pulled the letter from Mr. Gardiner out from where she had hidden it beneath her folded petticoats. With a resigned manner she stuck it out, holding the edge by her fingertips so as to keep Mr. Collins as far from herself as she could.

He seized letter and read it. "To bribe her guardians! To bribe her guardians. You sly sneak. You vicious deceitful creature. You were eavesdropping. Don't you know that is a sin?"

Elizabeth had plopped herself inelegantly back on her bed. She rolled her eyes. Mr. Collins accusing someone of unchristian behavior was rich.

"Did you tell anyone else? Maybe that little rich friend you always write to?"

"No, I did not tell Georgiana that you were selling me like a slaver, just that you had locked me up until I married your friend."

He peered at Elizabeth. She stared back at him.

At last Mr. Collins seemed satisfied and shook his head. "Good."

He left the room, slamming the door behind him. Then one by one the bolts clanked and the lock was turned. Elizabeth was left with her tiny space.


	9. Chapter 9

January 1785

London

The flocks of seabirds flapped around the outlines of the tall buildings. The collection of seagulls was the first sign they had nearly arrived. If it were summer they would have been greeted far earlier by the smell of rotting sewage. Fortunately, the winter cold kept the smell far milder than usual. The waterways were crowded with boats going to and fro and a dozen large ships. The East Indiaman they had lived in for so many months now had a collection of companions.

Boats came along the huge East Indiaman, and enterprising merchants and prostitutes clambered their way up the ropes. Perhaps for discipline it would be best to keep such persons off, but the captain of the ship had been reminded by the busyness of the port that he had transported passengers instead of profitable goods. He made no attempt to stop them.

Darcy decided that since they were at last back at home, dissipation was permissible. So long as the men of his regiment did not try to play with fire, he would not interfere with their pleasures.

The ship inched its way into the vast harbor. They passed mile after mile of quays and jetties. Multistory warehouses and crowded apartment buildings stood tall behind them. An endless profusion of people ran up and down the roads. Hundreds of boats ferried cargo and passengers from large moored ships to the shore.

Piles and piles of barely guarded goods lay everywhere along the quays, and a constant chatter of conversation and shouts could be dimly heard across the water. The day was overcast with a chill wind, and the river sluggishly flowed into the vast ocean.

Two hours before noon their ship reached its berth by the East India Company warehouses, and the anchors were lowered and the ship was tied to its mooring. It took another half hour before the barges to take his crew across the fifty feet of water between the ship and the coast were arranged. Darcy stayed on the ship until all of his men were transferred across.

Tomlinson had agreed to work personally for Darcy instead of simply leaving the service as he had intended to upon his return to England. Darcy sent him with the first group, so he could go to Darcy House and then Matlock House to announce his arrival before wandering off to enjoy his leave.

It was two weeks into January, and even if they had not come early for his return, his brother would probably be in town for the beginning of the season. Georgiana as well. Maybe, he desperately hoped, Lizzy.

Darcy thought about the letter he received from Elizabeth when the packet ship carrying it stopped in Lisbon while his ship was there to replenish supplies. She wrote about how the baronet whose wife she had befriended had begun pestering her and intended her to be his second wife.

That letter had been written two months earlier.

Even if he was an impoverished baronet and middle aged, Sir Clement's wealth was far greater than that of a colonel in his majesty's army with fifteen thousand as an extra inheritance. He was confident from how she wrote that Elizabeth would not marry without affection, and that her distaste for the baronet was irremovable. But Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Collins would put her under a great deal of pressure to marry him.

Darcy was frightened that she would be engaged or married when he saw her.

Even if she wasn't, would she let him court her? He loved her, the her who wrote those letters, but what would she think of him, the real him who had scars and terrible memories?

While on the ship, he had written a collection of letters to hand her when they met again. He'd spent a half hour writing each day. Elizabeth had written repeatedly about how comforting and happy it made her to imagine her conversations with him. He found the same happiness in writing to her. Any time he was angry, or worried, or completely happy, it was made better by imagining Elizabeth reading what he wrote.

But he couldn't write in them directly of his love. They were written to an unmarried female, and he planned to give them to her no matter what was the result of his suit. They still formed a love letter which he hoped would let her see beyond any mere physical facts to the way he cared for her.

The final group of soldiers clambered down the ladders into a barge, and Darcy followed them. The officers sitting around him, with two exceptions, had all been imprisoned together. There was a silent and deep sense of a long connection between them that was ending. Bingley sat next to Darcy, not wearing any uniform, but with an eager smile as his eyes stared at the pier.

It had been a long journey which had killed more than half their number. But at last they were home. When the barge docked everyone jumped out, and shook hands and laughed before running to their families. Bingley said, "We _will_ visit again once I've settled myself in the north. Before your leave is done and you take your regiment to whatever odd corner of the world you are sent to. Tell me what happens with your Lizzy."

"I will."

The survivors of the regiment had been given a long leave of two months. A majority of the men were being discharged. Part of Darcy wished to sell his commission and join them. England was not at war, no true duty kept him. But if he left the army his already comparatively slender income would be less than a thousand a year.

It would be a matter to discuss with her if he could convince Lizzy to marry him.

A drizzle had broken out that prevented Darcy from seeing if Georgiana and his brother had arrived. Many of the other men had friends waiting for them at the dock, and they ran into the arms of loved ones. He saw Bingley with an older man who must be his father.

Once he was on the jetty, Darcy looked over the crowd, searching. A tall girl with yellow hair whose features were caught between childhood and adulthood stood wearing all black. Darcy's eyes almost skipped past her, but then he realized it was his uncle who stood next to her. He also wore black. With a jolt Darcy realized the girl was Georgiana.

Her face broke out into a brilliant smile, and pushing past the other people, she rushed up and threw her arms around him in a tight squeeze. He embraced her back. "Oh, Georgie. Georgie. You're so tall. So tall. It's been so, so many years."

Lord Matlock walked up behind Georgiana, the light rain bouncing off his wide umbrella. There was a black feather stuck in a black ribbon around his hat. He smiled a little at the reunion. As if he had been thrown off the rigging of the ship and hit the water with a shocking speed, Darcy gasped as he took in the meaning of their clothing. "Where…where is Stanley?"

His uncle shook his head sadly.

Georgiana sobbed against Darcy's chest. "He's dead. Dead."

Darcy felt numb as he stumbled into his uncle's cavernous chaise. Stanley couldn't be dead. Just an hour ago he was going to meet his brother and embrace him for the first time in so many years. People only suddenly stopped existing in India.

Familiar experience with death as a military man reasserted itself, and he pushed the grief down. "Matlock, what happened to Stanley? When?"

"Late at night his carriage slipped on a sheet of ice. He destroyed the façade of a brick building."

Darcy let out a harsh breath and winced. He saw in his mind the careening momentum of a carriage, and the helplessness as it was too late to do anything. Then a mangled body.

"He didn't suffer." Matlock spoke soothingly, "Richard was right there. He died instantly. No chance to feel any pain."

Georgiana brushed at her eyes and gripped his hand tightly. He gripped his sister's hand back. Darcy rubbed his other hand over the edges of his scar. It felt like a hollow chute had opened in his stomach and drained everything out. At least he hadn't suffered.

To force himself to not compulsively scratch at his scar, Darcy pulled his hand from Georgiana's and put his arm around her shoulders and then gripped her hand with his free one. She was so much older, but still his dear sister.

The springs of the carriage meant the bumps as they rattled through the streets were quite soft, and it was warm in the carriage. They were quiet since Darcy didn't want to ask for more details about Stanley's death in front of his sister. He also couldn't thank her for the letters and talk about them in front of his uncle, because he didn't want to talk about Lizzy with Lord Matlock until he knew if he could convince her to marry him. But that would be delayed because of Stanley. Months of mourning.

Darcy suddenly realized that Stanley's death meant he owned Pemberley. He would resign his commission. His uncle and Lady Catherine would be far more stridently opposed to his throwing himself away on a penniless girl.

Darcy let go of Georgiana's hand and rubbed around his scar. "Stanley hadn't married someone in the last two months?"

Matlock replied to the real question, "You inherited everything. I know it is a small comfort, but life does go forward. We must act for the family and the estate."

"Poor Stanley. And so close to when I returned. It is a sick joke."

Georgiana squeezed herself against Darcy. "I'd argued with him, and even though he was completely wrong, I keep remembering those were the last things I said to him. I did love him. He was my brother."

They pulled up in front of the handsome brick façade of Matlock's mansion. Darcy stepped out, and his feet felt unsteady, because he was so used to the sway of the ship underneath him that solid ground felt like it was swaying instead. Tall English trees. Oaks, and elms, and beech. All bare of leaves.

Darcy followed Georgiana and Matlock into the house, holding his hand on the scabbard of the sword hanging from his uniform belt. He absently thought he needed to buy a better sword now that he was in England.

They followed the butler through the entrance hall. It was lined with silk wallpaper and tall portraits. Darcy asked the butler, "Did my man Tomlinson leave immediately after informing you, or did he stay for some sort of refreshment?"

The butler replied, "We offered Mr. Tomlinson refreshment and a meal; twenty minutes ago he was playing cards with the second coachman and an off duty footman."

"If he is still present, can you tell him I must speak with him before he heads out into the city?"

"Of course, sir."

He would offer Tomlinson some position, perhaps as a purchasing agent for Pemberley. Not only had he saved his life, but the man had been a brilliant quartermaster. He knew Tomlinson rather wished to quit the army.

Darcy looked about the drawing room. The warm fire burned merrily in the large fireplace, the yellow flames leaping about. The air was stale as all the windows must be kept closed for the winter, but the well-maintained chimneys drew almost all of the smoke out of the house. It was odd to again be in an English drawing room after so many years. The roof was tall and the rugs were thick and brightly colored. A profusion of candleholders had been stuck everywhere about the walls.

When he'd returned to Pemberley after the school term when he'd sprouted higher, all of the rooms suddenly seemed smaller than before. This was the opposite. After years in the dungeon with its seven-foot-high ceiling, and then six more months in the tiny cabin of the East Indiaman, the Matlocks' drawing room seemed far larger than it had been when he left.

Lady Matlock was in the room, and she embraced Darcy. "I forgot how tall you are. You must be so shocked by Stanley's death."

"Yes, madam."

She clucked. "It can't be completely unpleasant news to you though. You now have Pemberley."

Darcy glanced at Georgiana, who frowned at her aunt, but otherwise seemed unaffected by her callousness.

Matlock snapped at his wife, "Don't say such things. We are still grieving."

She was a small woman who had always been rather status obsessed, and a little cold in her personal dealings. She had greying hair, but still kept a fine well-cared-for figure. Her hands flapped in dismissal of her husband's words. "We are family here. You all thought it, even if you won't say it. You are torn up by Stanley's death, but we must face the future. Stanley kept up the family consequence neatly, but he didn't marry. Fitzwilliam, you must pay attention to your responsibilities. I expect you to marry soon. Pemberley needs an heir."

"I hope to marry as soon as the mourning for Stanley ends." Darcy rubbed at his scar. It was uncomfortable to realize that behind the grief, he _was_ glad he could quit the army without losing any income.

"Excellent. I'll help you find a good match." She pulled his hand away from the scar and looked critically at his face. "Well, that is an ugly one. A bit of romance with it, but not enough. The very best debutantes will prefer someone with a neater face. But you'll do all right. Pemberley is pretty enough to mask over a little ugliness. Perhaps with a great deal of makeup—"

"I do not plan to make a brilliant match."

"I expect you to." She sat down and Georgiana and the gentlemen followed. "Before you could marry as you wished, but _now_ you must consider the family and how your connections affect everyone else. This is why we cannot wait to talk this over until you've had time to grieve for Stanley."

"Stanley's death does not change what I hope for from life. I will _not_ seek a brilliant match, and if I marry a poor girl with few connections, _you_ will give her every respect."

Lady Matlock shook her head. "You have not thought about how being master of Pemberley changes your position. But it is of no importance, you cannot have any attachment at present, so it will not be a matter of difficulty to avoid an unsuitable one."

Darcy rubbed his scar. He could not claim right now an attachment to a girl who he had not seen since she was fourteen. Lord and Lady Matlock ideally would never know about Lizzy's letters. Besides, whatever his feelings, his suit might fail.

Georgiana nervously clasped and unclasped the top of her reticule during this conversation. "Fitzwilliam, can we talk apart?"

Lord Matlock dropped his head into his hands and exclaimed, "Not again."

Darcy stood, but Matlock waved him to sit back down. "She is going to tell you a nonsense story about how you need to help that poor friend of hers. _She_ is exactly the sort of woman you need to avoid."

Darcy's heart suddenly sped. The shock of Stanley's death had prevented Darcy's inquiries about where Elizabeth was, but he felt sure that the poor friend must be Elizabeth.

Georgiana looked pleadingly at Darcy. "Lizzy is in trouble. You must help her, you must. I know you will. Stanley wouldn't do anything, and then…and then he…"

Trouble. Darcy's heart seized. "What is the matter? Tell me, tell me."

"They want to make her marry some awful baronet, and they are—"

Lord Matlock interrupted her. "Enough of this nonsense. Don't bother Fitzwilliam with the fantastical lies your friend is telling you. Stanley explained fully to Richard what your _friend_ was about before he died. She just wants to marry the richest man possible, and you are throwing your brothers at her. She is using you."

At the back of Darcy's being was another explosion of rage. His uncle was insulting Elizabeth. The anger was far stronger than normal, and all of Darcy's muscles tensed. He wanted to grab at his sword and attack Matlock. He glared at his uncle. But part of him was still terrified for Elizabeth.

Georgiana opened her bombazine handbag and pulled the letter from it and pushed it into Darcy's hand. "Lizzy wrote this to you. It is the last thing I've received from her."

Matlock exclaimed, "She wrote _Fitzwilliam_ a letter? Stanley was right — don't read that, don't indulge your sister so. You should burn it. I have every confidence this Lizzy is a delusional fortune hunter."

Darcy unfolded the letter and read the salutation and first words: _Dear Fitzwilliam,_ _I am scared_.

His uncle grabbed at the pages, and Darcy glared at him so hotly that he flinched back. Darcy felt simultaneously cold and hot. The rage had filled him to his hair and made the numb patch on his cheek burn with phantom pains.

Darcy turned away from his uncle, and he looked at the letter and for a moment his eyes swam. But he needed to see what she said, and he calmed enough to peruse Lizzy's words:

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I am scared.

Mama and Mr. Collins have locked me up and sworn not to release me unless I marry Sir Clement. I am trapped in my tiny room, with just a view of the outdoors and no chance to walk or talk to anyone or anything. They took all my books. It smells. I haven't had a bath for a week, and my body is sore from sitting too much. Everyone but your sister thinks I should marry Sir Clement. Even Uncle Gardiner wrote that I have no choice.

I won't. I despise that man and hope he dies.

I actually hope he dies.

Mama is my guardian and she will do whatever Mr. Collins says, and I overheard them, that night when it happened. Sir Clement will give Mr. Collins a thousand pounds if I marry him, so Mr. Collins will lock me up until I do. I've been sold like a slave, and all that is left is for me to finally accept my slavery because, as Jane tells me every single night: He is a good man, and how he has purchased me proves he really loves me so very much. I should be happy that I've inspired such a strong passion.

I wish I were a man so I could shoot him.

Sir Clement imposed himself on me the night of the first assembly in December. I'd gone out for some air, and then because Charlotte told him to, he came up behind me and kissed me and…and then everyone saw that he did it, and he said I'd agreed to marry him, and I didn't say no immediately because I was scared and Charlotte dragged me to my carriage, and that was the last I've seen of anyone, because they locked me up that night.

How could Charlotte do this to me? She wishes she could marry Sir Clement herself. I understand she is so stupid as to think he would make a good husband. But she knew I hated him and then arranged for me to be forced to marry him just because she thought she knew what was best for me. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. I hate her and Mama and even Jane more than I hate Sir Clement.

I am determined not to marry him, but I do not know if I can do this.

Uncle Gardiner said there is no way for me to be removed from Mama's guardianship, so I am trapped here until I come of age. Even if I escaped, the law would hunt me down and drag me back.

Another one and a half years. It is not truly so very long. Five hundred more days. I have calculated the exact number, but I do not wish to think about it.

I want to walk.

I want a bath.

I want to talk to a friend. I wish I still had friends. But I do have you and Georgie.

I know I ought not complain, and I use you for inspiration.

You were imprisoned in a place that was surely far worse. I have all the food I need and a comfortable bed. They left me with a good view of the outdoors.

Oh, Lord. Day by day it feels as though the walls are closing in on me. I keep nearly speaking to Jane so I can use my voice.

I take comfort in your sister's promise that I shall escape, and in her demand that I do not give in, but I am frightened.

What if I eventually become so tight and desperate that I do what they ask? I know I should not. I despise Sir Clement, and I think that, beneath his lust, he hates me. I think he would hurt me if I married him.

But I don't trust myself. What if after a month, or six months, or a year, the fact I could not escape has eaten at me so far that I give up? I am scared.

What I shall do is read Georgiana's letter every day, and I will remember you, and how you survived in conditions that were so much worse. I read that Tippoo Saib gave great rewards to Englishmen who deserted and professed his creed. But you would never have been tempted to betray your country. In this far lesser matter, I promise I will follow your inspiration.

So see, I'm not so scared now.

Your affectionate and hopeful,

E Bennet

Darcy felt closed off with his emotions a distant thing. He would scream in rage later. He needed to first rescue Lizzy. They wished a rich man for her husband — with his brother's death he was richer by far than Sir Clement. He could afford a bigger bribe for Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet.

All his anxieties about whether Lizzy would spurn him disappeared. She may not love him immediately, and she might dislike his scars, but surely after writing him so faithfully, Elizabeth would trust in him enough to prefer him to remaining trapped in that room. She would see it was the way out. And then he would have her as his wife. He would make her happy.

Darcy placed the letter on top of the sofa and let out a deep breath. His way forward was clear.

Lady Matlock said mildly, "So what does Georgie's friend write, when she writes to unmarried gentlemen. Not a respectable girl."

Darcy glared at his aunt. He then rang the bell for a servant. "Get me a horse. I'm off to Hertfordshire."

Before the butler left Darcy said, "Wait! My man, Mr. Tomlinson. Bring him here immediately and find another horse for him."

Georgiana jumped up and threw her arms around Darcy. "Oh, I _knew_ you would help Lizzy. Bring her to live with us. It shall be perfect, except…poor Stanley."

"Surely not." Lord Matlock sneered at Darcy. "You cannot seriously be considering riding off suddenly on the word of a poor country girl. What spell does this penniless miss have over you two?"

Tomlinson entered the room, his head characteristically cocked forward. He looked awkward and a little astonished at the grandeur of the drawing room. "Tomlinson, I know you looked forward to enjoying the city, but I need you to come with me to Hertfordshire."

He gave the crooked nod necessitated by his injury and saluted snappily. "Yes, sir."

"Bring a pistol with you."

Tomlinson did not blink. "Of course, sir."

Lord Matlock slammed his fist against the sofa repeatedly. "As the head of your family I demand you cease whatever foolishness you have decided and see reason. Any girl of her age who would write a letter _to_ a gentleman has loose morals and—"

"DO NOT EVER." Darcy clenched his teeth as the echo of his roar rang off the walls. Georgiana's eyes were wide, and Uncle Matlock was pale. "Never, never, _never_ insult Elizabeth in my presence."

The butler opened the door again. Darcy strode up to him. "Have you found horses for me and Tomlinson? They need not be particularly good, only an animal suitable for a several hours ride. A stable mount, I've barely ridden for more than four years."

At the man's nod, Darcy strode out the door and down stairs.


	10. Chapter 10

The entire way Darcy's head pulsed with the pain that followed his anger. The tight feeling where he clenched his teeth and his chest was so tense that the bones' hurt never left.

If they had forced her to marry that brute, he would murder them all.

Elizabeth was too strong to be broken in a month. She hadn't married him. Had not, had not, had not.

If they had broken her, she would have sent word of her planned marriage to Georgiana.

Darcy held on to that thought.

It wasn't how he had planned, but he was riding to offer for the lady he had chosen. She would be grateful for the rescue and in time fall in love with him.

A chill wind blew. Darcy had forgotten the way the cold of an English winter could bite through a man's clothes. He should have borrowed an overcoat like Tomlinson had. Darcy drove the horse too fast for the first half the distance and was forced to let it continue at a walk for a while.

Tomlinson caught up with him; he had been left behind earlier by Darcy's faster pace. He wore a gray coat over his uniform, and he'd taken his soldiers cap off to rest on the pommel of the saddle. He was a decent horseman, but the way he could not quite hold his head right looked painful to Darcy.

"What should I expect to happen?"

"Nothing, I hope. But…"

"I shall follow your lead."

Darcy shook his head, a small jerky denial. "No. I am too angry. Do not trust me — if I attack someone, attempt to stop me."

The road was not crowded in December once they got several miles away from London. They rode past fields bordered with hedges and small farmsteads with pillars of grey smoke rising out from their chimneys. It was a cold day and sensible men stayed indoors if they could.

The afternoon was advanced when they reached Longbourn. The long wooden stables and a rough stone barn stood to one side. The greystone steeple of a church poked above the leafless hedges a few hundred yards away.

One of the windows was boarded over with large sawn planks of wood pounded around it. Had Elizabeth tried to escape and this been the response? She had depended on being able to at least see the front yard, and then they took it from her.

A confused groom came out from the stables, surprised by the arrival of visitors so late. Darcy clambered off his horse and tottered as the muscles in his back were stiff from the unaccustomed exercise. Strangely he felt no pain. Nothing but the radiating rage. The groom automatically took the reins. Darcy clenched the hilt of his sword so tightly that he could feel the bones of his palm rubbing up against it through the skin.

He strode evenly to the door and pounded on the wood with his bare fist, ignoring the brass knocker. The door rattled in its frame.

Darcy recognized the housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, when she opened the door. She was the same woman who'd been there during his visit to Mr. Bennet. She blinked up at him from under her sprigged cap.

Darcy spoke in a harsh, hissing tone. "Miss Elizabeth. I will see her."

"Captain Darcy! Returned at last from India." She pressed her hands together and looked side to side. "Perhaps… Miss Bennet is not accepting visitors. Ill. She has been…ill."

"I WILL see Lizzy!"

"I can't… I can't. It would be my job. The master has the key… You must speak to Mr. Collins. He is the one who—"

" _Yes_. Mr. Collins. Bring me to Mr. Collins. I do wish to see Mr. Collins." Darcy flexed his hand, consciously releasing and re-grabbing the hilt of his sword.

"If…if you wait here, I shall see if he is willing to accept a caller at this late hour."

Darcy walked past Mrs. Hill who ineffectually muttered, "Wait, just wait. You should wait."

The door to the study was closed. Darcy turned to Mrs. Hill who clasped and unclasped her hands endlessly. "In there?"

When Mrs. Hill did not deny it, Darcy hurled the door open. Its knob slammed forcefully against the opposite wall. Mr. Collins startled from where he sat behind a hardwood desk scribbling into an account book. He stared at Darcy. Darcy saw as if in a dream his mouth slowly move with words of exclamation that Darcy could not hear over the rushing in his ears.

This creature had agreed to sell Elizabeth to a man no better than a rapist.

Underneath his murderous rage a calm rational part of Darcy had decided that negotiations with Mr. Collins would go easier if he was convinced that Darcy was so unhinged he might easily decide to murder him.

Darcy found himself at the desk without awareness of the last seconds. He glared into the eyes of the frightened man, and put his hand on a knife in his coat.

He imagined himself stabbing Mr. Collins. Mrs. Hill had run off to retrieve a footman and Mrs. Bennet. Tomlinson tensely stood at Darcy's shoulder watching him cautiously.

Mr. Collins had said something, but Darcy had heard nothing of it. Darcy glared into his eyes which were so wide that Darcy saw white all the way around the irises. "I will. Know this. Elizabeth is my… my… you will not sell her. I will kill you if you try—" Words left Darcy.

"Who are you?"

Tomlinson said, "He is Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy. You'd best produce the lady."

"A relative of her little rich friend? I tell you this is none of your business. Miss Elizabeth is under my protection."

The knife came out of Darcy's coat and he stabbed through the account book and gouged the table beneath it. "Do not play games! You are no protector."

A footman and the butler entered with Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Bennet. They stared frightened at Darcy and Tomlinson. From the edge of his eye Darcy saw how their eyes focused on the knife he now held in front of Collins's face.

Seeing other people, Mr. Collins sat straighter and said with an odd confidence, as though he had no fear of Darcy's knife, "I do not know what you are about, but you both are uninvited, and I demand you leave."

In that an instant Darcy nearly stabbed Mr. Collins through the eye. Instead with a shaky hand he pushed the knife back into its pouch.

"Are you still imprisoning Elizabeth in her room?"

"Imprisoning? Of course not. Who told you such a story? They lied about me, and I'll sue them for defamation. She has been ill, that is all. That is all. I wouldn't lock up a young lady. I demand that you leave, my servants will drag you out if you don't, and I'll set the law upon you."

Darcy showed a toothy grin and spoke in a light tone, as though it was a matter of no importance, "I think they would only transport me if I killed you. You see, since the fever I took when I received this"— Darcy tapped his scars — "I have had trouble controlling my temper. Please, cease challenging it."

In the silence that followed the statement, Mr. Collins turned whiter. Tomlinson bared his teeth, and looked with his tilted neck like a vicious, deformed monster.

Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, "Captain Darcy? Returned from India, and here to visit our Lizzy. You look well, very well indeed." Her voice took on a sly tone, "My condolences, I heard your brother died… He is dead? And you have no other brothers?"

"No."

"So sad that he died without marrying. I once hoped he'd look at my Lizzy when she visited your sister. It would have been a fine match, with that large estate Lizzy and my departed husband described. You must have been hurt to return to England only to hear your brother was gone."

The tension in Darcy did not allow him to feel any grief. He believed Mrs. Bennet had chosen to be his ally in this matter. Darcy said, "It is a tragedy. I only learned this morning. But the estate is entailed, so I have inherited the entirety of it. The landholdings are vast; my father's income was greater than ten thousand a year. I am now a very rich man."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes were bright and beady. She clapped her hands together enthusiastically. "Oh! Ten thousand a year. That is as good as a lord."

"Better, even, than most baronets." Darcy spoke with a false urbanity, keeping a grip on his anger. "Especially those with such great debts that they had no choice but to let out their ancestral home."

"Quite true, quite true." She clapped her hands together again. "You must be here to see Lizzy. She has of late… You see, a man has been courting her. A man of great consequence. Nothing to _yours_. Lizzy's position with him is delicate. If he were to hear that we let you see her, he may get the wrong idea. I can't let her see another man unless…unless I knew he would—"

"You disgust me more than that slave trader. She is your daughter." Darcy breathed deep and slow. His hand was on the sword grip. His headache throbbed and pulsed like a living thing, jumping from the area beneath his skull to behind his eyes to the top of his head. "I am here to marry Miss Elizabeth, if she will have me. You need not bargain to convince me."

"Heavens! I am so pleased. She did refuse Sir Clement, but she is such good friends with your sister. I do not fear _that_. I shall bring her down immediately."

"Wait." Mr. Collins stood up. His fingers were shaky. "What about my friend, Sir Clement. I promised him Miss Lizzy, and he has been so patient."

Darcy glared at him, and Mr. Collins flinched backwards, taking small steps until he was against the bookcase behind him. However, Darcy's all-consuming rage had passed. He felt sick and strained. He wished to have nothing to do with anyone here. They were horrible persons.

Standing as far back from Darcy as he could, Mr. Collins said, "I spend very much to support my daughter-in-law's family. An enormous amount. If you are to marry her sister, you should promise to do as much. Perhaps they ought to live with you, as your estate is so much larger."

"You agreed to lock Elizabeth up for a thousand pounds."

"I have done nothing wrong. Nothing."

"And you will get nothing from me."

"Then I will throw her family out, and you will be forced to let them live with you."

Mrs. Bennet gasped. "Captain Darcy, do say you will be generous."

Darcy glared at her. She would never live at Pemberley. But he'd thought about what bribe he would offer on the road. "I will give the unmarried daughters dowries whose income will be paid to Mrs. Bennet until they marry or come of age. Three thousand in government funds for each." Elizabeth wrote fondly of her sisters, and they had nothing to do with the situation. "Mrs. Bennet might use the money to pay rent for lodgings, or to take on more of the expense of entertainments. Or not. Mr. Collins, you will get _nothing_ but a bullet through the eye from me directly."

Mr. Collins looked at Mrs. Bennet with a thoughtful frown. She signaled something to him with a gesture Darcy failed to interpret. Mr. Collins pulled a key from the inside of his desk. "I will bring Miss Elizabeth down. But, if she won't have you with that hideous scar, I'll lock her up again."


	11. Chapter 11

After he discovered her letters, Mr. Collins boarded up her windows. It was a tight job, and no light leaked through to tell her if it was day. A little light snuck in under the door. Even though she'd kept the letters from Georgiana, she had never been able to reread them. She had to recall everything from memory.

Each day when the maid who had replaced Sarah opened the door to remove her chamber pot and dirty plates and provide new food and water, the sudden light shining through the doorway blinded Elizabeth. Then she eagerly soaked in every scrap of color so she could remember for the rest of the day that she wasn't blind.

Mr. Collins stood outside the door each day while the maid cleaned her room. Elizabeth always asked if Sir Clement had given up, and what the weather was like. He never replied.

The new servant never spoke to Elizabeth. She did not even know her name.

Lydia and Kitty had taken to whispering to Elizabeth under the door when Mr. Collins was out and the servants were busy. But after the first time they were caught and punished, they became very cautious and only did so when Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet were both engaged elsewhere. Sometimes days went past before Elizabeth heard the tap on the door, and Lydia's whispered, "La, Lizzy, are you there?"

Elizabeth had convinced Mary to stop her lectures about proper behavior and have a real conversation. But one afternoon Mr. Collins caught them talking about the Christmas decorations, and after that he forbade Mary speaking with her.

She had missed Christmas. That afternoon the fragrant smell of goose and turkey and partridges wafted into her room making her stomach growl. In one of the few things he ever said to her, Mr. Collins had announced the previous day that since it was Christmas, he was giving the new maid a half-day, and she could wait until the next day to eat. In the evening the faint sound of her mother and sisters singing carols had slid under the door of her room.

Elizabeth spent the day pretending to talk to Georgiana. No presents, nothing. Her stomach was hollow. They had just put up all the red and green decorations when she was locked up. It was a freezing day with no fire in her room, and her toes felt colder than normal. But when Elizabeth had almost fallen asleep in the dark, Kitty and Lydia tapped softly on her door. They had stayed up very late so that they could talk after Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet fell asleep. For more than two hours they whispered together as her sisters described everything about the decorations and the day.

The day after Christmas, Mr. Gardiner demanded to see her to ensure she was well. But once he saw that she was being fed, he let Mr. Collins lead him away, and the door was shut once more.

Jane never made Mary's mistake.

She only talked about how Elizabeth needed to marry Sir Clement. Jane was happy; she had a child. "Lizzy, you told me not to marry Mr. Collins, but look at us. We are so happy. If you marry Sir Clement, everything will be so much better. Papa Collins is really angry. You are making everyone unhappy. All of your friends keep asking, and I don't know what to tell them. It is embarrassing. If you don't marry him, Papa Collins might throw Mama and everyone out. Don't you care about Mama? Please, Lizzy, for me? I would do anything for you. Just marry him, for me."

The room smelled. She smelled. Her clothes smelled. Stink, stink, stink.

After the windows were boarded up, Elizabeth had the first day, before she was accustomed to navigating in almost complete darkness, knocked over her chamber pot. The surly new servant had cleaned up the mess, but did not do a good job.

She also had spilled food over herself and her clothes before she got the knack of eating and managing bowls without seeing anything. Elizabeth had begged Mr. Collins to replace the boards with bars. Anything to let her have some light.

He laughed.

Did Mr. Collins have any sense how terrible punishment boarding her windows had become?

Part of Elizabeth wanted to give in, but for now she pretended that Fitzwilliam's ship had been delayed, and he would do something to rescue her when he arrived. She did not know what she would do when so much time had passed that it became impossible for her to pretend that there was any hope of rescue.

It was several weeks after Christmas when Elizabeth heard the locks being undone on her door several hours after her daily meal had been given. Blinded by the light she heard Mr. Collins's harsh voice: "Dress her and send her down."

He did not remain to see his command carried out.

The bright orange light of the late afternoon burned Elizabeth's eyes, and after she shaded them for a minute, she could see again.

Elizabeth had taken to wearing her petticoats and chemise all day, and she wrapped herself up in her thick night robe and blankets for warmth. It was impossible to dress in most of her dresses without another person's help. The buttons up the back were quite tiny, and attempting to tie a corset together by yourself was an exercise in absurdity.

Elizabeth had several times attempted dressing without being able to see anything. For variety.

"Stand so I can dress you, Ma'am."

What did they want with her? "Why? Why am I being sent down?"

The servant sullenly stared back and repeated, "Stand up."

"I assure you, I shall not if you do not explain for what purpose. You've been told not to speak to me, but you have also been ordered to bring me downstairs. Do you wish to be forced to explain to Mr. Collins why I shall not come?"

The woman scowled at Elizabeth as she weighed her options. "They want you to speak to the gentleman."

Elizabeth had heard raised voices some minutes earlier, but as she could not distinguish the words, she had paid little attention. She had not believed it was Sir Clement's voice, but it hardly surprised her that she was wrong.

Sir Clement might have decided to demand another audience with her, but she had no intention of seeing him. Then Elizabeth recalled that she had grown ugly and wild looking, and none of her dresses were clean. Elizabeth looked down at her long and untrimmed fingernails.

Maybe her appearance — or smell — would at last put him off. If not, she would scratch him with her fingernails.

Elizabeth looked over her clothes and selected the dirtiest dress to put on. The one she had spilled the barely warm soup over the day after the windows were boarded up.

The maid raised her eyebrows at Elizabeth's choice, but helped her into the dress, and then insisted on making Elizabeth's hair into an untidy bun.

Elizabeth stumbled down the stairs, finding it difficult to climb the steps. She was led to the study, and as she walked towards the door, she prepared herself, tensing her arms with anticipation. If he gave her any opportunity, she would scratch Sir Clement. Her anxiety at being grabbed again was gone, she just wanted to make him hurt. They had left her trapped in a dark room, but she was not beaten. She would never let them beat her.

She had secreted Georgiana's letters under her dress, and she touched them for reassurance.

Sir Clement was not in the room.

A tall, thin gentleman stood next to the desk. Upon her entrance he turned to stare at her with a powerful intensity in his blue eyes. He was deeply tanned and a large scar dominated the left side of his face. It extended from the bottom of his ear into the edge of his hairline. Elizabeth's hand would barely cover it. The skin was wrinkled and leathery, and there was a circle of crumpled skin drawn together in the middle. Half his eyebrow was missing.

It was a pity, for otherwise he had a very handsome face. They studied each other, and then he said in a strained, yet quiet, voice, "Lizzy."

Her eyes widened. Suddenly she knew it was Fitzwilliam. Like the missing pieces of a puzzle falling into place, she recognized him, though he was ten pounds lighter and there was some change that went far deeper than his face. In a sudden flair of elation she knew he would rescue her, and she impulsively threw her arms around him.

He staggered and then held her close. Elizabeth sobbed happily. "Fitzwilliam, Fitzwilliam. Oh. Oh. You are here. Here. At last. I've been waiting for you."

"My ship only came this morning." There was a smile in his familiar strange voice. He kissed her on the forehead. "I am here. It will be well. I promise."

"You did come to rescue me?" Elizabeth felt a wild fear. What if he was here, like Uncle Gardiner at Christmas, only to ensure she was alive and well. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't go back in there. No. No. No—"

"Shhh. It will be well. You won't. I swear." He awkwardly brushed his hand over her cheek, wiping away the tears. "You don't have to return."

"How?"

He didn't quite meet her eyes. "Your mother…your mother agreed to let me marry you. W-would you be willing?"

She stared at him in surprise. But she remembered her uncle's explanation of how nothing could be done to remove her. This must be the only way for her to escape, and he was sacrificing himself to marry a girl he'd not seen for five years, and who had become shockingly ugly in that room.

His deep blue eyes looked at her and though she felt guilty about how he was throwing himself away on her, she tightened her arms around him and desperately said, "Yes. Yes. Oh, yes."

There was something almost hesitant in the way he held her. He said, a little slowly, "I really… I have read all your letters, many times. And…and we will suit very well. They, I… T-that is. I know it is to escape, but if you really do not wish to marry me, perhaps, oh I do not know. I would not wish to force you—"

"No. No. Any other course would be dangerous and illegal. Oh, thank you, thank you. I swear I shall be the best wife ever. I do. Do not worry. I shall do everything for you and...and…and you will never regret marrying me. And I am so glad you cared for my letters. Oh. Your brother died. That is why Mama will let you…you must be so hurt still."

"I will grieve later." He kissed her on her forehead. "Then it is settled. Do not worry. I will never regret marrying you."

He fell silent and studied her. His skin was deeply tanned, but beneath it he looked pale and almost ill. Elizabeth's cheeks flamed. Now that he saw properly what she looked like, he must be reconsidering. But she couldn't let him. She would look better in time, and she _could_ make him happy. She knew it.

"I kn-know I look so terrible. I am dirty and my hair and…" She flinched a little away from him. "I haven't bathed for six weeks. They've kept me there. And no light. I will look far better once I'm clean and dressed, I swear. And…and the dress is dirty. Oh and I embraced you. But it was all long dry, so your uniform…oh." Little flakes of dried soup stuff had brushed off providing a green grime against the shining red.

"They did not even clean your dresses." His jaw clenched.

"Oh. It is not so bad as that. You shall need to clean your uniform. Forgive me. This is the only one with food spilled over, and while it would have been quite dusty, I still had one clean gown. But—" She looked into his eyes hopefully, "You see I thought they wished me to speak to Sir Clement again, and I planned to scratch his face."

"And you dressed to disoblige him." There was a smile on Darcy's face, though only the unscarred side of his mouth pulled back into a perfect dimple.

But his smile made Elizabeth's heart feel much easier. "Yes. Yes. You see it was the most natural thing to do. I look like a frightening monster."

"You look brave and beautiful… I do not appear as I would wish to either."

"No." Elizabeth uncontrollably glanced at Darcy's scar again, and then she smiled. "That doesn't matter. Oh… It doesn't matter at all. It is not bad." Elizabeth threw her arms, food smeared dress and all, around this unfamiliar friend who was to be her husband. Tears were in her eyes. Fitzwilliam was at last here, and she was safe.

Darcy embraced her back, though he left his arms loose.

Elizabeth started away and exclaimed, "I used to embrace you so, when I was a child. I did not think — you do not mind?"

"No." He smiled at her, flashing his white teeth. When he smiled that way, he was completely handsome, despite the scar. "I do not mind at all."

Then he winced and grabbed at the top of his head, rubbing his fingers at his skull.

"What is it? Are you well?"

He forcefully moved his hand back down to his side. "It is nothing. Only a headache — and I am sore. I had not ridden for any distance for years before this afternoon."

"Oh. A headache. I'll call for something to be brought and…" But instead of moving, she stared at the bell pull on the wall. She didn't want to call the servants of this house. She wanted to leave Longbourn and never, ever see it again. Fitzwilliam placed his hand over her wrist and shook his head, wincing at the movement. "No, we must talk about matters, and then I shall need to return to London so I can get the special license and arrange the settlements tomorrow and then, if you are willing, I will return the day after tomorrow with Georgiana. You do not mind marrying so quick? It seems best."

Settlements? Elizabeth's guilt at letting him sacrifice himself for her came back. "I assure that I don't expect any great amount of pin money. It is not as though I care for money, or…"

He smiled with what could only be fondness. "You are the girl who thinks there would be nothing difficult about six women living on two hundred per annum."

"Well there _wouldn't_ be. No serious difficulties. You have food, and a house, and a maid, and nothing more could be needed. If I hadn't thought that, I would have needed to marry Sir Clement when Mr. Collins threatened to throw everyone but Jane out if I didn't."

"My brave Lizzy. I do hope you will not be terribly cut up by having a little more money than that, for since Pemberley is entailed, I really cannot do anything about the matter."

She wanted to embrace him again but was afraid that the sudden movement would worsen his headache, so she looked at Fitzwilliam with shining eyes. For the first time, perhaps since her father died, she knew everything would be happy and well. She bit her lip and smiled, "Oh, I suppose your income will be tolerable, but only since you cannot help it."

"I promised to make a settlement of three thousand on each of your unmarried sisters. That was the bribe to Mrs. Bennet. You always spoke as though you were fond of them."

"That is such a great fortune."

"I did not want to give anything to Mrs. Bennet or Mr. Collins directly…not after how they have used you. I saw the window. You… I imagine you do not want vengeance but…"

"I might. Jane has been completely horrid; Mama worse than I ever imagined her she could be. But Mary didn't do a good job of lecturing me, and Kitty and Lydia have been very kind. They were the only friendly people who have spoken to me since Sarah was dismissed — do you mind if I hire her, as my lady's maid, if she has not found a position yet? She is the one who posted the letters for me."

"I would be very, very pleased to have anyone who was kind to you in our house."

He looked out the window. "I must leave, I will be in the dark most of the way, but the moon is bright enough tonight."

Elizabeth was suddenly terrified of being alone. She bit her lip and nearly begged him to take her with him. Mr. Collins would change his mind, or Sir Clement would do something terrible, and if he left she would be placed in the room again, but she couldn't stay there after her hope.

He took her hand and squeezed it. "Lizzy, Lizzy. Of course I won't leave you alone. You have been so brave, but now it is my place to care for you." He walked to the door of the study and opened it. A man in a soldier's uniform stood guard next to the door. "Sergeant Tomlinson will remain to protect you from your relatives and Sir Clement. He saved my life, and you can trust him completely."

"Yes, ma'am. Though it was the Colonel who saved mine. I am at your service." Tomlinson was a man of middle height, who looked short next to Fitzwilliam. He held his head in a peculiar jutted-forward manner that looked painful. There was something capable and reassuring about the way he stood. He had two pistols stuck into his belt and a long sword. Her terror at being left receded.

Elizabeth exclaimed, "I remember you! Fitzwilliam praised you as having a genius for finding supplies when I visited the company's camp that week before you departed."

"Yes, Miss. You were almost a child then."

"Thank you. For saving Fitzwilliam, I am sure you _were_ brave."

He laughed. "Nothing of the sort. Just nursed him through the fever."

She walked with Fitzwilliam outside, and Mrs. Hill had found Elizabeth's long pelisse to put on so she could go out in the freezing wind. Elizabeth was glad her dress was now covered up, but she still had a desperate need of a bath.

When Fitzwilliam reached the stables he stared at the horse and shook his head. He looked at the groom, "Take care of the animal. I will hire a post-chaise to return to London. I do remember that there is a posting station in Meryton?"

"Yes. You should have no trouble hiring." Elizabeth took Fitzwilliam's hand. "Goodbye? I should not walk into town with you dressed like this. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"I do not believe your mother would trust you to do so." He gestured his head towards where Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet watched them from the entrance of Longbourn. "Tomlinson, a minute."

The two talked, with Tomlinson nodding his head several times, and they firmly shook hands. Fitzwilliam returned to her, kissed her hand and set off in a stiff gait down the road to Meryton.


	12. Chapter 12

It was barely past dawn when the Darcy carriage began the return trip to Meryton. He'd sent a runner yesterday with a brief letter to Lizzy and a note to the largest inn in Meryton to have a meal prepared for them to eat before driving back to London.

They would meet Lizzy at Longbourn and then walk to the church and from there to the inn.

Georgiana literally bounced in excitement. She'd not stopped smiling since he'd told her that he would marry Lizzy. He had been too busy dealing with the lawyers and the bishop the previous day to smile the entire time, but he felt very, very satisfied. The only matter which worried him was the faint anxiety that he was taking advantage of Elizabeth.

But marriage was the only sure and legal way to permanently remove her from Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Collins. She had agreed, and she had immediately thrown herself into his arms and trusted him. He would care for her, and with their friendship… She had smiled at him again and again.

It would be well.

Richard sat across from him and Georgiana with an impassive frown.

The previous night he'd spent an hour talking to Richard. Stanley had believed Elizabeth's story about being locked up was a game to get him to marry her. It was absurd; Darcy knew from Lizzy's letters that she did not even like Stanley, but Richard felt he had a duty to believe Stanley as this nonsense was what he'd been saying the last evening of his life. However, Richard eventually agreed to stand with Darcy and withhold judgement on Elizabeth until he'd met her.

Darcy thus had no reason to worry; she would charm him completely once given the opportunity.

Lord Matlock was, of course, completely opposed to Darcy's marriage to a "fortune hunter." It was a ridiculous idea; Lizzy would have married Sir Clement if she wanted a fortune. Even though they didn't know Lizzy, that should be obvious. Darcy refused to worry about the matter. His uncle would show Lizzy the respect she deserved as his wife, and then over time he would learn to admire her.

The carriage pulled up in front of the drive at Longbourn. The whole family and Tomlinson stood in the entry hall.

Georgiana squealed and threw herself into Lizzy's arms before Darcy had a chance to say anything to his betrothed. "I am so, so, so, so, _so_ happy." Georgiana grabbed Elizabeth's hands and danced in pleasure. " _Nothing_ could have ever made me happier than when Fitzwilliam said you were safe and that you would marry him."

Lizzy grinned brightly at his sister. "I rather thought you would be pleased." Then she seized Georgiana in a tight hug and said something into her ear.

"Well. Well. Colonel Darcy." Mr. Collins spoke to him, rubbing his hands as Elizabeth had described him doing in her letters. "You have something for me, I think."

"For the Miss Bennets, you mean."

Darcy took the package settlement papers from his great coat pocket. He handed them to Mrs. Bennet, not Mr. Collins. She immediately handed them to Mr. Collins and he unfolded the papers. After staring at them for a minute, he said, "Well everything seems to be in order. But perhaps…"

He trailed off when Darcy's glare seemed to remind him how Darcy had behaved the previous time they'd met. Mr. Collins coughed and said, "Well, I imagine Mrs. Bennet must approve of such a marriage, to a man like you."

Elizabeth wore a lace cap and her curls were done up in a simple but beautiful fashion. She was beautiful in a white silk dress and laughing with Georgiana when he turned to her. She still looked unhealthily pale, but her eyes were bright and gleaming. She met his gaze, and his stomach flipped. She smiled cautiously at him, and he smiled back. Her smile widened into something truly happy and it felt almost as though he was knocked over by the look in her eyes.

He held out his arm to her, and she tucked her hand sweetly into his, and his fear that he should not be doing this faded away. She would be happy with him.

They put on their heavy coats and walked across the quarter mile to the stone church. The wind blew fiercely the whole way. The parson was already present, and Darcy handed him the special license. He looked it over and smiled.

Without any prelude they went to the front of the church and began the ceremony. When it came time to say her vows, Elizabeth's voice was clear and sweet. Despite a surge of nervousness, Darcy's promise to love and cherish Elizabeth was spoken with equal confidence.

They exchanged rings and were man and wife. Darcy smiled widely, and Elizabeth smiled back at him. They signed the register. Darcy knew he was completely happy. Then after shaking hands all around, Georgiana and Richard held the doors open for them, and they walked outside.

An ugly voice greeted them. "Slut. You damned slut. You think I'll let you go. I won't. Mine. You are _mine_."

With a shiver Elizabeth jumped against him. Darcy held her in his left arm, and his right hand fell to the sword of his dress uniform.

The speaker was a vigorous man with broad shoulders, yellow hair, and a lined face. The veins and muscles in his neck throbbed and pulsed. Darcy stared hard at him with his muscles tense. His sword was sharp and ready. If Sir Clement came towards Elizabeth, he'd attack him.

"So you are the creature who stole her from me. Well the slut has lied to you. She is mine. You have a better fortune than me, and that is why she'll take you. Well don't trust the bitch. I shouldn't have. She is a lying slut. And one day she'll run away from you and come back to me."

The parson and Elizabeth's family were behind them. Richard stared at the baronet with popped eyes. There were a dozen women and men gathered outside of the church to see Lizzy off from the community. Given Sir Clement's insults to Elizabeth, Darcy had no choice.

He was glad.

"Sir Clement, if you are not a cowardly scumlike creature, I expect you shall meet me."

The man's lips came back into a snarl. "A duel. I'd hoped for it. And then after I kill you, I'll marry your damned widow, like I should have in the first place."

"That shall not happen." He turned to his cousin. "Richard, can I trust you to arrange matters with Sir Clement's second?"

His cousin nodded solemnly.

Darcy had never expected himself to fight a duel. He had always disapproved of the practice, even though many officers were mad for duels. He had gone to some effort to avoid situations where he might be obliged to give or accept a challenge. However, he knew a certain sangfroid should be shown in such cases. Still holding Elizabeth's arm, though her hand was now a terrified clawlike grip around his wrist, he turned to the wide-eyed people watching the confrontation. "We have a fine meal waiting at the inn. Shall we go to it?"


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: I decided to post two chapters at once because the first one was rather short, so make sure you read chapter 12 before reading this**

* * *

Elizabeth did not even try to eat.

A sick churn ate at her stomach. Fitzwilliam acted completely comfortable, calmly eating the meal that had been set before them. Georgiana spoke with a blood thirsty certainty that Fitzwilliam would kill Sir Clement.

She had traveled from happy to miserable in an instant.

Fitzwilliam had had no choice but to challenge Sir Clement, Elizabeth knew that. But she still wished he had not. He would die, and it would be her fault.

Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had left ten minutes after they reached the inn to meet Sir Clement and whoever he had chosen as his second.

The meal had been cleared away when he returned.

Elizabeth saw him through the window. He settled his shoulders before he entered the inn and was ushered into the parlor they had taken. Colonel Fitzwilliam's face was pale. "You are to meet tomorrow at dawn, that field by the Thames which is popular for such affairs."

Fitzwilliam calmly replied, "Excellent, no reason to wait."

"Swords. He means to kill you. He was quite clear on that point."

"I expected as much."

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to wish for a different response from his cousin, but Darcy sat there with his lips pressed together and his arms spread widely apart. He rose. "This brings to mind an arrangement I must make. Then, since Sir Clement is a noted fencer, it would in no way be dishonorable for us to spend a little time in a few practice spars."

Darcy left the room, and Colonel Fitzwilliam slumped into the sofa.

Sir Clement would kill him. Everyone talked about how good of a fencer he was. She should have married Sir Clement. She should have married him, and then Fitzwilliam would be safe. She could not look towards Georgiana. She had killed Fitzwilliam by hoping he would rescue her.

If she had married Sir Clement, then only she would be miserable. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at her with a solemn look. Elizabeth thought his eyes were accusing. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I know this is my fault. I know it is. I know it is."

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood. "Mrs. Darcy, might I speak with you apart?" He glanced for a second at Georgiana. Georgiana half pouted, but made no effort to follow them to the hall.

She nodded stiffly and followed him out to the currently empty hallway of the inn.

The officer looked at her with tight eyes for a long moment. "You must understand it is not your fault. Sir Clement…he is not a good man. Your husband has no choice but to fight him, because of who he is. Do not blame yourself for the situation; it is not your fault."

Elizabeth shook her head rapidly. "You don't understand. Everyone says Sir Clement is the best fencer in the county. He will kill Fitzwilliam — I have as good as murdered him. I should have just married Sir Clement, and then everyone would be safe and…"

"It is not your place to protect Darcy, but his place to protect you. I—I should apologize to you. Because Stanley gave a very poor interpretation to your request for Georgiana's aid, and it was the last thing which he said to me before he died, I believed it. But now seeing that man, you did right not to marry him. He is quite mad. I ought to have listened to Georgie and helped you before Fitzwilliam returned." Colonel Fitzwilliam tugged at his sideburns. He added in a hesitating voice, "If… should my cousin lose his life, I will ensure you are protected from Sir Clement."

The manner in which he looked to the side showed that Colonel Fitzwilliam also thought Fitzwilliam would die, even though he didn't blame Elizabeth. But Elizabeth knew it _was_ her fault.

Before Elizabeth could respond Fitzwilliam returned, and he smiled to see her and his cousin speaking. He took her hand and they returned to Georgiana. Soon he and Colonel Fitzwilliam went out to practice.

The hours of the day passed agonizingly.

Fitzwilliam would die. He was living his last hours. She desperately tried to smile at him and mimic his manner so that he would be as happy as possible. She studied every bit of his appearance, trying to imprint him upon her mind. If only she had married Sir Clement. Or at least stayed in the room.

The room had a roaring fire, and they talked and played cards. The best food from the cellars was brought up along with expensive wines and brandy. They were neatly buttoned up against the winter wind. Elizabeth prayed for a blizzard that would prevent travel the next day, but the night was cloudless and starry.

The trees outside were bare. All leaves dead and gone. The bare sticks made menacing black shadows.

She ate nothing except a few bites of a fine caviar at Fitzwilliam's urging. She smiled at him in thanks and agreed they were good. She nearly threw up.

Georgiana drifted to sleep. Fitzwilliam softly smiled at his sister and brushed some hair off her forehead. He whispered to Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Time for sleep. A few hours will not go amiss."

"Quite right." Colonel Fitzwilliam held open the door to Georgiana's room and once she was set down left the suite to go to his own room next door.

It was them alone. Enjoying a mockery of a wedding night.

"Don't die. Don't die. Don't die. Let's flee. I know it would be shocking to not fight after…but don't. Don't."

He took her hand. His hand was firm and warm with a smooth texture. "I must."

"No. If you…"

"Lizzy. I have no choice."

"You do have a choice. I've heard he is the best fencer in the county. No one would think you were a coward, since you've had no chance to practice for years, and then — you shouldn't care if everyone sees you as a coward or if they think I am what he called me. It isn't important." She wretchedly looked at Fitzwilliam's firm face.

He shook his head.

"Please. Don't do this. Don't fight him. Not after you just returned from India. And Georgiana will be so hurt."

"I will depend on you to take care of her. I know how close you two are."

"Why can't you just not fight? You did not approve of duels."

Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow deeply. "Elizabeth, I…I… Sir Clement should be killed, and this is the way to do it."

"This is my fault. I should have married him. Everyone told me I should, but I thought better. I thought I couldn't hurt anyone. I would have married him if I'd known this would happen. I shall never forgive myself."

"Don't talk absurdities."

"I would have married him."

He pulled her into his arms, and Elizabeth felt too sick and frightened to cry. But she took in deep breaths, trying to memorize the smell of his coat and body.

"My brave Lizzy. You would've done even that to protect someone you love. But I could not have let you — it is not your fault."

"I am no better than a murderess."

"I might not be killed." There was a slight smile in Fitzwilliam's voice. "In fact I expect the opposite to happen."

"He is an expert fencer. You cannot have half the skill — and you had so little opportunity to practice."

He continued to hold her. "A fencing match and a serious attempt to kill a man with a sword are different things. I hope the experience I have shall matter more than what experience he has. I expect to take him."

Elizabeth did not believe any of that. He would die early tomorrow. She clung to him, feeling her heart beat against his.

"Should I die; it is not your fault. I challenged him, the only choice I could make as a gentleman. You made the choices you should. I am glad you made them."

"I won't—" Elizabeth choked and then she exclaimed, "I _know_ whose fault it is. I won't… If you die, I won't ever let myself be happy again."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her in front of him. His eyes bored into her, and his thin red lips were compressed into a tight line.

"If I die, you will be happy."

"I could never be. I don't deserve to be happy. I wouldn't be."

"I will have you swear it to me. I cannot… When I face Sir Clement, all my mind must be on him. I cannot have any fear for what shall happen to you. Swear that you will be happy. You remember how you mourned your father, and how I mourned mine. You will not let yourself be unhappy for longer than proper, and then you will enjoy life. If I am dead, I will depend on you to be happy enough for us both."

"But…" He was beautiful in the dim light. His features, even the scar, were bold and powerful. "This is my fault. How could I be happy?"

"Lizzy. I cannot, I cannot argue right now how silly you are being. It is not your fault. But if you insist on believing it to be your fault, then let me choose your punishment. I demand you to be happy anyways. I must hear you swear that you will be happy. I…I care for you so much. Please. Please, I _beg_ you."

She was deeply touched. And his words struck her. It was more appropriate to live for one you'd lost than to be miserable because it was your fault. "I swear I will live for your memory. But don't die. Don't die."

Darcy fell to sleep immediately and easily. But after far too short of a rest a servant woke him. He dressed quickly in his colonel's uniform. It was still completely dark outside.

When he entered the parlor, he found Elizabeth, still in her wedding dress sitting forlornly on the sofa. She seemed so beautiful and fragile. "Did you rest?"

She mutely shook her head.

He took her hand. His mouth was dry, and he tried to memorize the feel of her cold fingers, the curve of her cheeks, the way her eyebrows tilted, the freckle on her nose.

Richard entered the parlor and said, "It is many miles to the spot. Come along, Darcy." He looked between the couple and left the room.

"Lizzy, I need to hear again…"

"My promise?" Her voice sounded tinny. "Do not worry. I will. If you…you… If you die, I will live as fully as you wish. I will spend your money and…and I'll take care of Georgiana and…don't worry for me. But don't die. Please, don't die."

He kissed her on her lips. She tasted sweet. Tears were in her eyes, and then they parted.

She followed him out to the inn's carriage yard, a forlorn white figure wrapped in her pelisse. Richard already sat in the carriage, and the footman held the door open for him.

Tomlinson stood next to the carriage.

There was one last arrangement he must make in case he was killed in the duel. He put his arm on Tomlinson's shoulder and said in a low voice that could not carry, "You understand this duel is not primarily a matter of honor."

"That madman is liable to do harm to Mrs. Darcy."

"I hope to kill him, but it may go amiss."

"He hardly has your measure. He may be good with the sword as a toy, but killing a man is different."

"I hope. But will you… There is an account with one thousand pounds that I wrote yesterday to have deposited in your name with my bankers. Will you use those funds to arrange Sir Clement's death if he should take me?"

Tomlinson showed no surprise at the request. "I do not need near so much money to manage it. I do not need any."

"I did not think you would need so much. But if you can use it to make the job safer for yourself, do so. What you do not use will give you something to retire from the army with and establish yourself. Don't quibble. You'll do the regiment proud, and it is not as though the money would be any use to _me_ , and Mrs. Darcy is well provided for. But do keep an eye on her."

"I swear. Don't you worry about him ever hurting Mrs. Darcy. Just kill him yourself, so I don't need to be bothered."

They shook hands, and Darcy entered the carriage and sat next to Richard. He felt no anxiety. He was quiet as his mind ran over sword drills, and he recalled the feeling of stabbing a man in battle. He would do his best, and he meant to return to Elizabeth.

Dawn had begun to glint when after two hours they arrived at the field near London where they had agreed to meet. The surgeon, Sir Clement, and his second were already there. The man who stood next to Sir Clement had the same features as the baronet, though he looked at least five years younger and was rather portly.

Darcy shook hands with the surgeon and Mr. Allen, Sir Clement's brother. Richard told him that Mr. Allen was a successful attorney in London. There was nothing of his brother's insanity in the man's eyes.

Sir Clement looked eager for the fight. He was stretching his hands and almost bounced up and down. His long brown great coat protected him from the morning cold, and his breath filled the air with large puffs of steam. "So you weren't too cowardly to show up."

Darcy shrugged in reply and stared at the man. Elizabeth had begged him not to die, so he ought to make an attempt. "If you swear as a gentleman to never bother my wife again, I shall remove my challenge. Your words were clearly the product of a distraught mind and need not be considered."

"You damned coward, did they cut off your manhood in India? Shall you need my help to satisfy that bitch? I've already tupped her once — she liked it. Did she tell you how she squirmed for me?"

"I truly hoped you would not accept the opportunity to cry off. But my honor required I offer it." A tiny flicker wondered if it was true. Elizabeth had written that he kissed her, and it resulted in a belief they were engaged, but she had not said more. Perhaps she would not have spoken of it if he had raped her; it was such a shameful matter.

Darcy was icily calm, and the possibility floated away from his mind.

The circle where they would fight was marked off. Richard and Mr. Allen examined the swords and then handed each man their weapon. Both men shrugged out of their great coats and stretched a little. There was no further attempt after Darcy's offer to get the men to come to amicable terms without fighting.

They stood across from each other, holding naked weapons. Sword duels were far more dangerous than duels with pistols, because once in range a sword could strike again and again, and there was far less chance of amicable misses and no opportunity to delope. It was not infrequent for both men to be killed. It was for this reason that duels with a sword had become very rare.

The only reason a man would demand that a duel be held with swords was that he hoped to at least seriously wound the other. Each man here intended to kill the opponent.

Darcy felt completely calm. It was as though he was detached from himself, able to see the rocklike steadiness of his hand. He remembered sliding a saber through a man's chest, and another time through a boy's neck.

Darcy had done this before. It would not be the first time he killed a man.

He had a subconscious awareness of how to use a sword from years of fencing and drill practice, but beyond that he felt deep in his bones this was no game. Sir Clement had the superior skill, but he could not yet understand in his soul how in an instant a man could be turned into meat. Darcy held himself in patient readiness for Sir Clement's move. He would let his opponent act first and then strike when he was concentrated on the attack.

All that mattered was killing Sir Clement.

They slowly circled each other, swords raised. A sheen of sweat stood on Sir Clement's forehead. The morning was advanced enough for the birds in the woods around their clearing to start singing. The cold clean smell of winter brushed over his nostrils. A chill breeze blew through, and Sir Clement shivered in his shirtsleeves. Darcy did not feel any cold. His eyes stayed focused. An instinctive awareness told Darcy that the vile thing he faced had expected him to be angry and shaking, an easy kill.

Sir Clement cried out, "Come on, coward! I'm going to poke you through the heart, and then poke that bitch."

Darcy heard the words; he understood them. But there was only a burning intensity in his mind. Darcy still waited for his opponent to make a move.

They both held long thin swords, designed for thrusts. The swords could easily punch holes through human bodies. Sir Clement's blade was a dull silvery metal that barely reflected the early morning light. He held it low, it's tip vibrating from side to side. It took a fraction of a second for a swordsman to feint in one direction and bring the tip back across to stab the opposite side of the body.

Darcy held his weapon higher.

Any moment the attack would come. Time spaced endlessly, seconds ticking by. The twist of his wrist, the tightening of his muscles, the way he held his legs — something would signal the man's move an instant before he made it.

Sir Clement's attack was beautiful, a feint then a lightning thrust towards Darcy's heart. Sir Clement stepped in closer to give the strike sufficient reach.

The thin line of metal moved faster than the eye could see.

Darcy had somehow known what Sir Clement would do, and almost dodged, as he brought his weapon down through the enemy's chest. Missing the ribs, there was almost no feeling of resistance as the sword went through Sir Clement's heart and out his back. Their eyes met for an instant. Sir Clement struggled to pull his sword back to stab again.

All of Darcy's rage returned. This man had attacked Elizabeth. He perhaps had raped her. Suddenly Darcy was a struggling furious animal. With all his strength he wrenched the blade out and struck Sir Clement again and again. The man collapsed to the ground and Darcy continued to stab him. At least a dozen times. The man's chest was a ripped and shredded mess when Darcy finally registered the shouts to stop.

He stood back up, the bloody sword hanging loosely in his grasp. Richard took one look at the destroyed mess and clamped his hand over his mouth. Darcy tossed the sword aside.

His cousin was bone pale.

Mr. Allen looked at his brother's corpse with a tearless cold expression. It was an attitude Darcy had seen in soldiers who lost dear comrades.

As Darcy's adrenaline began to fade, he recognized the sting of the wound in his side and allowed the surgeon to examine his injury. Sir Clement's weapon had scraped across his rib, but done no serious damage. It hurt like a hundred stinging bees, but simply remembering his face after the burn became infected was enough to remind him that it was of no moment.

To distract himself from the growing pain as he held his arm up so the physician could stitch the wound together, Darcy looked again at the body. Despite the damage to his chest, the look on Sir Clement's face was clear and human. Wide staring eyes that bulged outwards.

He had wanted Elizabeth. Darcy's Elizabeth. He had touched the dearest friend Darcy had in the whole world. He had touched her against her will. Darcy kept the smile off his face, knowing Mr. Allen still watched. It would be unkind to visibly exult at the death of his brother. But beyond the pain in his side, and the sudden shakiness, and the sweat soaking through his shirtsleeves, and the pounding in his heart, Darcy felt triumph.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: So mistakes have been made. This is chapter 16 in the book, the chapter right after Darcy fights Sir Clement, and the one that had the formatting errors. I got mixed up about the count of chapters , and it turns out I somehow failed to include chapter five from the book when I was preparing the manuscript. There is nothing story essential in that chapter, so rather than reposting every chapter to get the order right, I'm going to just leave it as a bonus if you actually buy the novel. Otherwise, I should now have the order of chapters right, and thank you to everyone who first told me about the formatting error, and then who told me about the posting error. I am very sorry, and possibly next time I'm not going to try to upload all of the chapters at once before I start posting, because it seems that way leads to mistakes and frustration.**

That afternoon, the dread and anxiety still stuck in Elizabeth's stomach when Fitzwilliam shook her awake upon their arrival at Darcy House. The brick and marble façade of Darcy house was familiar and comforting. Three stories, with the collection of chimneys and their iron peaks to keep the rain out, rising above everything else.

"Is Georgiana here?" Elizabeth asked eagerly.

"No. Richard said he would take her to Matlock house for the day." Darcy smiled, an achingly familiar boyish grin. "We shall grab her tomorrow, and I daresay, you two girls shall spend a great long time together tomorrow."

Elizabeth smiled back with pleased dimples, though she still felt a pit of anxiety that stubbornly refused to dissipate only because the crisis was past. "We shall. We shall conspire to spend a great deal of your money."

Darcy smiled at Elizabeth, and kissed her hand after she had been helped from the carriage.

Elizabeth blushed uncomfortably; they were married and that put a different complexion on her plan to shop with Georgiana. She was no fortune hunter; Darcy knew that.

They were alone.

And married.

Elizabeth's flush became far deeper, and she wondered what might happen this night. He was very tall, and he had kissed her softly before leaving the house that morning. If he smiled at her the way he had a minute ago, Elizabeth thought she could accustom herself to the idea of conjugal relations very well.

Perhaps it would help her forget the terror she'd spent the past day living through.

The previous day it had been impossible to think of anything but the duel. The familiar housekeeper and butler, with a mixture of staff Elizabeth recognized and new employees greeted Elizabeth and Darcy.

With a satisfied tone Darcy introduced her as Mrs. Darcy. There were curtsies all around, but Elizabeth fancied she detected new coldness from the butler, but not from Mrs. West. Did he think she had used some arts and allurements to entrap the new Mr. Darcy?

Had she?

Darcy was different.

He was still her knight, her dear friend, but — his scar and thinness of his body and face made him physically different. There had been some similar mark on his mind. He thought and acted in ways that the man she'd seen off from the docks all those years ago would not have.

The barely suppressed ecstatic thrill he showed at having killed Sir Clement surprised Elizabeth. She could not be happy that Sir Clement was dead. He may have harmed her, but he was another human. The friend she had had those long, imagined conversations with would have agreed.

He would have tried to keep from challenging Sir Clement. But what Sir Clement had said… Elizabeth knew any gentleman would have been expected to challenge him.

Rather than letting Mrs. West give Elizabeth a tour, since she already knew the house very well, they decided to walk around it together. Elizabeth began to feel frightened. Rather than the warm, though ostentatious, dwelling of her dear friend Georgiana, this suddenly was an imposing structure that she was Mistress of.

There was a ballroom that took up most of the second floor with a twenty-foot-high roof, and large windows that opened from both the back and front of the house. Elizabeth recalled Georgiana's brag when they explored it the first time she visited this house that fifty couples could dance at once in it. The cellar had thousands of bottles of wine and liquors. The three floors had space for more than a dozen guest rooms, and a large pair of suites for the master and his wife were built next to each other with a door between the bedrooms.

Elizabeth blushed brightly when they explored this and looked shyly at Fitzwilliam who smiled back at her.

There was a long gallery on the third floor, which had windows that looked out over the streets behind the square. A line of portraits of the great Darcy ancestors sat on the walls between the windows.

Fitzwilliam's eyes were caught by his brother's portrait.

He pressed his hand against his mouth. "I forgot. For a little while I forgot — your danger, the marriage, the duel. It drove all memory of him from me…"

He stared. The painting was as tall as life and looked much like what Mr. Stanley Darcy had appeared when Elizabeth saw him last. A haughty expression, a strong family resemblance to her Fitzwilliam — when caught in the right light it was possible, before Fitzwilliam's scar, to mistake the two. Handsome with an intelligent look.

Elizabeth had never liked him. Her throat still caught with sadness for Fitzwilliam. And sadness for Georgiana.

Darcy reached out his hand to brush the back of his knuckles over the paint making up his brother's hair and cheeks. "I did not know till we landed. Just a few days ago—"

Elizabeth seized Darcy's left hand in both of hers. A dark look was in his eyes. "I thought he was alive. A week ago, I expected I would today feast here with him. We would go to the races, and then return and drink wine and make fun of how different the other was. We would talk and remember Father. I know it was at Georgiana's urging, but he wrote me a few letters while I was in captivity. I wished to see and touch him again."

Darcy rubbed helplessly at his eyes and began to cry. He sank to the ground and sat with his knees pulled up against the wall. Elizabeth dropped with him and squeezed her arms around his neck and shoulders. He wept into the shoulder of her traveling dress.

Elizabeth looked at the yellow and blue silk wallpaper behind Fitzwilliam. He needed someone to comfort him, and she would always be there for him. She unembarrassedly pressed herself close to him.

He pulled back to sit against the wall when his tears stopped flowing, with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Darcy pulled Elizabeth onto him so that her back was against his chest, her head falling just below his chin. Elizabeth felt very comfortable with Darcy's arms around her. He whispered, "You have always been the only person I could cry in front of."

Elizabeth felt an exultant warmth inside. After a few minutes the hold of his arm slackened, and he snored lightly. She knew he hadn't slept more than a few hours the previous night.

Despite her earlier nap in the carriage, Elizabeth fell into a light slumber with him.

When they were woken an hour later by a surprised servant, Elizabeth found that sleeping on a hard floor was not at all comfortable. Fitzwilliam, however, stood and stretched easily. They dressed and then went down to dinner.

At first it was a quiet and awkward meal. Elizabeth wished to say something, but she did not know what.

Last night, with all its awfulness, did not count. Tonight was their wedding night, and there was something unsettled in her stomach at the thought. She was aware of his scar, and of the fine line of his lips, and of how his hands moved picking up the food. She kept remembering when he had kissed her.

She trusted him and looked forward to becoming man and wife. But the nervousness made it hard to speak, and while she tried to feel confident, she knew she wasn't.

"Enough of this quiet," Darcy said as the soup was removed and the roast brought to the table. "Though I should probably enjoy it. Once you and Georgie get together, you will have me run all about in evenings to the opera, and plays, and Vauxhall, and a dozen other entertainments."

"No!" Elizabeth grinned at his smile, her restraint broken by his teasing. "You wrong us. We plan to sit quietly at home and read improving sermons to each other every night."

"You forget, my dear, that I read all of your letters carefully. You revealed rather more of your true character in them than you think."

"Oh. I have told you most of my doings. You will not believe that I have no desire for balls and evening parties, and that I intend to spend every day in contemplation of Latin. I fear I've grown quite flighty since you saw me last."

"Yes. I will need to bear with taking you to occasional entertainments."

"Do not worry. I will hide you in the corner of the room with a book while I dance. I will expect you to have a good report of whatever the book is though, so I can try to pretend to all my friends that I have read it myself. I shall need such stratagems to keep my reputation as a great reader."

Fitzwilliam smiled brilliantly at her. "But I want to dance with you. I fear you shall need to read a few books for yourself. I hope I will make you a creditable squire."

She felt her heart flutter. "Oh you will. But only if you wear your uniform. All the girls are quite mad for scarlet coats, you know, and I shall reach the pinnacle of happiness in being envied."

"On which subject, pinnacles of happiness, I warn you that I played a great deal of chess on the ship home."

Elizabeth grinned back. "I did write that beating you would be my highest goal. And I haven't played nearly so much since Papa died."

"Do not worry, my dear, I promise not to let you win. You will have to bring yourself up to snuff before you can take me."

"What an outrageous plan!" The way Fitzwilliam kept smiling at her and his good humored bantering caused all of the anxiety about her marriage to recede away. He was still Fitzwilliam, and they would be very, very happy together. And he had half memorized her letters. A gigantic smile forced itself across her face. "But then you always were the most unchivalrous man of my acquaintance. I remember clearly how you never let me win an argument."

"Of course not. I do not intend to change that now. But I do hope you may prove a better challenge."

Her smile not wavering in the slightest, Elizabeth said, "Do not worry, I will tease you quite beyond bearing."

"Which is why I married you."

Elizabeth's smile now wavered. It was kind of him to say something like that. "I do thank you for marrying me. It is shocking that you had to go to such an extent to rescue me. And then… But no unhappy thoughts tonight. I…I am so glad you have your sense of humor still."

"Yes…" He took her hand. "I assure you, I have looked forward to being teased beyond bearing by you."

Something in his look and voice made Elizabeth's heart beat faster. It convinced her that he truly was not unhappy that he'd married her. But of course he was not, they had been, and would be again, such dear friends. And her letters — he did know much of who she was.

They continued dinner. The fluttering in her stomach made it hard to attend to the food. "Georgie and I do plan to drag you to a great many places, I confess. But do not worry: we can go to the dressmakers to spend your money on our own."

"Yes, it is fortunate that you will have such a good confidant. I have never understood lady's hats. Or men's, for that matter."

They chattered in like manner for the rest of the meal. They joked about languages, remembered Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy, and talked about their visit to the continent. Darcy's Latin had degraded more than hers, her early exposure to the language meant that she still was nearly as fluent as she had been as a child despite not more than occasionally rereading Catullus or the Aeneid since Papa had died.

When the meal was brought away Darcy said, "Perhaps, you would like to lose the first of many games of chess to me?"

"Maybe." This was her wedding night. Her anxiety was still there, but after laughing and talking with Fitzwilliam, she felt a great deal of anticipation too. She half yawned. "Early to bed maybe? We were up all night."

He took her hand, softly rubbing his thumb in a very distracting way over her hand. There was a question in his eyes.

Elizabeth nervously said, "That is, tomorrow we will retrieve Georgie. Do you not think it would be better to play chess when she can alternately insult and praise us both?"

"Georgie would do that." He searched her eyes, and then seeming to find what he was looking for in them pulled her hand up to kiss in a delightful way. "Chess can wait."

Someone pounded a rattling set of knocks on their front door, and Darcy glanced out the window. It had already turned dark some time ago. "At this hour? It is quite late."

An anxiety mushroomed in Elizabeth's stomach. The butler led four men into the room. They were dressed in some official uniform, though Elizabeth could not tell if they were watchmen, or Bow Street Runners, or what. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam stood at their entrance.

Their leader, a gray-haired man with giant bushy sideburns sticking out from the sides of his face, shook Darcy's hand and said, "Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy?"

"Yes." Her husband had no tension in his manner, but Elizabeth realized her hand was trembling as it held the back of her chair. She felt almost dizzy, and wondered if she might faint.

"You have been charged with the murder of Sir Clement Allen, and we must take you in to await trial."

Fitzwilliam nodded amiably. "Certainly." He turned to his butler. "Have a bag of necessities prepared and bring me my coat and money. Also call Tomlinson."

The gentlemen made no objection to this delay, and Fitzwilliam added to the footman who had been waiting on them while they dined, "Bring these gentlemen something to drink, some of the brandy. I daresay it is cold out tonight."

The four men nodded, murmuring that the night was terrible cold, and they made their thanks to Darcy for his condescension.

They were going to hang him. Elizabeth knew it. She had managed to kill Fitzwilliam.

She stared endlessly at Fitzwilliam, trying to imprint his image on her mind. Why hadn't she refused to let him sacrifice himself to rescue her?

He looked at her, and his sangfroid broke. "Oh, Lizzy." He took her hand and kissed it. "Do not worry. There is nothing to worry about — who brought the charges?"

The leader put down the glass of whisky he had finished and said, "I believe it were a Mr. Allen, the brother of the deceased."

"Really." Fitzwilliam half smirked. "He was Clement's second. If I recall the laws on dueling correctly, he counts as an accomplice. That would be quite a joke if I sent you boys after him."

The men smiled and one of them laughed aloud at the jest.

Elizabeth clenched at the chair and Fitzwilliam's hand.

"There is nothing to worry about." He smiled confidently. "It only is annoying that this had to happen now. I do not know what Mr. Allen's game is, but he'll only waste money on court fees and expenses for any witnesses he calls. It was a fairly fought duel, and I was given sufficient provocation before challenging Sir Clement. There isn't a jury in the whole of England who would convict me in this case."

Elizabeth stared at his face, begging him to be right.

Tomlinson entered the room, and the butler handed Fitzwilliam a full valise. Darcy shrugged into his great coat, and then pulled his purse out of his inner pocket. He handed each of the men who had come to take him prisoner a full guinea. "Well let's be off."

He kissed her hand one last time. "Lizzy, there truly is nothing to worry about."


	15. Chapter 15

Elizabeth had learned the day after Fitzwilliam was taken to Newgate to await his trial that Mr. Allen planned to call her as a witness.

Both she and the lawyer Fitzwilliam had hired wondered what he could ask; she would lie freely to protect Fitzwilliam, but the barrister insisted she should tell the truth no matter what she was asked. He had no idea why she was being called up. She had not seen Fitzwilliam for five years prior to the duel and could not serve as a character witness, and the facts about why the duel had occurred were well established.

The barrister was not quite as confident as Fitzwilliam that he would be acquitted, since juries occasionally took odd notions into their heads, but he too thought it exceedingly unlikely that they would return a guilty verdict. Usually if a jury desired to punish a duelist, a verdict of manslaughter would be returned, which had the maximum penalty of one year's imprisonment. He had only heard of one time when a man was hung after a duel, and in that case the circumstances had been extremely irregular and little better than murder.

Elizabeth was still terrified.

Colonel Fitzwilliam visited both her and Fitzwilliam several times and had been very kind and encouraging, but the times she visited Georgiana at Matlock House, she was treated with a cold, barely polite formality by the Earl and Lady Matlock. She knew they despised her for being poor and still were convinced she was a fortune hunter. Her only ally in the family was Colonel Fitzwilliam, but then he traveled to Bristol with his regiment.

Elizabeth found herself barely able to sleep most nights, and she always kept the curtains open wide when sleeping because she had nightmares of being enclosed in the dark and trapped in that room otherwise.

The day of the trial, Elizabeth's carriage passed the wall of the courthouse where they had hung the bodies of a gang of highwaymen to display English justice. The Gibb sat in front of the courthouse. A famous gallows to which London criminals were sent; a long wooden plank with the hooks from which they would hang the ropes and beneath it the stage, with trapdoors ready to swing open.

When Elizabeth entered the court and told the clerk that she was to be a witness during the day's proceedings, she was sent to a room with a door that opened into the courtroom. There were a dozen men in the room and one other woman. Elizabeth's maid Sarah sat silently next to her.

Two gentlemen loudly discussed the theft which had brought them there as witnesses. They hoped the thief would be hung not transported. The case was clear and the presiding magistrate was known to be a hanging judge who usually gave the harshest sentence allowed. So their odds were good.

The light came through the small window and bounced off the motes of dust floating in the air of the small room. It smelled of carved wood and paint. There were no tables — just uncomfortable hard backed chairs. Several people read. Elizabeth had not even thought to bring a book.

Over a period of hours one by one the other witnesses left, and occasionally new men entered the room to replace them. The trial for Fitzwilliam was the last case of the day, but Elizabeth had arrived as soon as the court opened for the day.

After three hours, Lord Matlock entered the room. Elizabeth knew he was to provide a character witness for Fitzwilliam. After a glance which showed that he recognized her when he entered the room, he never looked at her. Elizabeth knew it would be bad for her in-laws to hate her, but she was too frightened by the situation to push conversation onto her new uncle by marriage.

Her stomach hurt as though she had been punched in the gut repeatedly.

Matlock went out first when Fitzwilliam's case arrived.

Fifteen minutes later a guard politely asked her to follow him. With shaky steps Elizabeth followed to the box for the witnesses. Fitzwilliam stood in the box for the accused. He held his hand against the railing of the bar, dressed in his splendid red colonel's uniform; it was as though there was an iron rod in his back. He appeared calm, with an expressionless look on his tanned face, except when he turned to her and smiled.

It didn't matter how certain Fitzwilliam was that a jury would never convict for a duel fairly fought. Elizabeth was terrified.

A massive crowd packed the galleries. They were astonishingly well dressed, rich women dripping jewels with finely coiffed hair, young dandies with long gold-tipped canes, older balding gentlemen in densely embroidered waistcoats. All of them packed together like sardines in the too small witness galleries. Elizabeth had known that the case was a matter of fashionable interest, but she hadn't expected such a rich crowd. With a sick feeling in her gut she realized how she appeared today would be how they always thought of her.

As though in a daze, Elizabeth was sworn in. The air was simultaneously stuffy from too many people and nearly freezing from the early February climate.

This was the first time Elizabeth had seen Mr. Allen. He looked much like his brother. But he was younger, perhaps in the middle of his thirties, and he had a portly figure instead of his brother's trim sportsman's look. There was a difference in how they moved, but it was only when Elizabeth saw his frozen eyes that she understood. He was as harsh and determined as a tempered knife.

He drew himself up and said in the sonorous voice of a trained orator, "Mrs. Darcy, I have called you here to elucidate the circumstances of the duel which killed my brother. It is most important for everyone here" — his eyes turned to the fashionable crowd in the galleries — "to understand what happened. Remember, Mrs. Darcy, you are under oath."

He stepped closer to her, a thin railing separating them. The similarity in his face to his brother made Elizabeth involuntarily start back in sudden fear, her back resting against the wall of the judge's tribunal. He smiled thinly. And he stared at her for what seemed a long time. "On the night of the ninth of December 1784, you allowed Sir Clement to kiss you upon the mouth and take other liberties with your body."

The titillated crowd in the galleries muttered as Mr. Allen glared at her. She said, "No, I did—"

"I did not ask you a question. You are not to respond except directly to questions. Your debased treatment of my brother is not at question. I had a letter from him the following day which described how he had offered honorable marriage to you, despite the vast disparity in stations and expectations. You drew him to make that offer with your indecent behavior."

"It wasn't like that."

"Did you not kiss him?"

Elizabeth remembered his grasp. The whisky on his breath, the way she had been trapped and unable to do more than wriggle to get free. His lips, and then the way he pressed his hand against her chest. The fear tinged with anger. Her mother's exclamations of happiness when they were caught.

"Mrs. Darcy, you are under oath — admit that my brother kissed you upon the mouth. Or are you not only Jezebel, but a liar and a perjurer as well?"

Unable to look at anything Elizabeth said in a shaky voice, beaten by the terror of the situation, "He did." She had to say it; their barrister had told her to say the truth. She could hear gasps and titters from the scandalized crowd above her. It was a beady-eyed crowd who looked at her with contemptuous smirks.

There was a snarl from where Fitzwilliam sat, but Elizabeth could not let herself look at him. Not after admitting that in court.

Mr. Allen turned to the crowd and pulled his shoulders back. He spoke in that warm, sonorant voice, "You all heard her admit her depraved behavior. Their engagement was recognized in the community, and the only delay was for my brother's period of mourning over his first wife. However, she then received news that Mr. Darcy, the elder brother of the accused, had died leaving Colonel Darcy an unencumbered estate generally believed to be worth at least ten thousand a year. My brother's estate was sadly encumbered, and Colonel Darcy was a far richer prize for her lustful avarice.

"You have already heard the testimony of Lord Matlock which admitted that she, violating every convention of delicacy and morality, sent a letter to Colonel Darcy which he passed through the hands of his sister, turning an innocent gently born child into a participant in an indecent affair. Colonel Darcy had only just been released from the brutal imprisonment which the Mohammedan warlord Tipoo Sultan placed him in.

"Naturally such an officer, cut off for so long from all delicate society, would be vulnerable to the former Miss Bennet's ridiculous claims. Naturally, he rushed to the aid of his sister's false friend. I do not imagine Mrs. Darcy found it hard to seduce him when she was the first Englishwoman who he had seen in five years. She has admitted she will allow a gentleman every liberty with her person for money. The result is as you see. Two days after Colonel Darcy's arrival, he married her by special license and then my heartbroken brother confronted them. Mr. Darcy challenged him. In the following exchange he killed my brother, which was a deep disappointment to Mrs. Darcy, who hoped to be left a wealthy widow."

Elizabeth was pale. She always knew her marriage might make her appear a depraved fortune hunter. But what did Mr. Allen hope to accomplish? Would proving her to be a selfish fortune hunter make Fitzwilliam seem guiltier?

Mr. Allen paused in his speech. He looked at her with hatred in his eyes. Elizabeth suddenly understood. He turned back to his true audience, the fashionable crowd in the galleries. "You see who Mrs. Darcy is. She is a woman who showers her favors upon a gentleman and then conspires his death. She is a whore and a—"

"I challenge you!" Darcy's voice screamed out. He suddenly was not calm, but red with anger. He pounded his hand against the iron railing of the box; his arm shook visibly as he pointed it at Mr. Allen. "You damned liar. The instant I am free I will kill you too. My wife is the best, most honorable woman in Britain. Your vicious smears shall not stand. When I am free—"

The judge cracked his gavel hard, three times the loud sound echoed around the courtroom. Fitzwilliam's arm still shook, but he fell silent.

With a sharp voice the judge said, "Enough! Enough! You both make a mockery of this body. This is a solemn court of law, not a podium for spreading scurrilous gossip. Mr. Allen, I am disappointed in you. Have you anything to say to the jury about your prosecution?"

Mr. Allen had a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He looked at the jury. With his hands spread out in an almost friendly gesture, he said, "I consider Colonel Darcy to be an honorable man who acted as a gentleman ought. My brother was eager for the fight. And it was the very fairest duel I have ever seen. They both had been enthralled by that woman" — an accusing finger stuck at Elizabeth — "I do not blame Colonel Darcy. She is the one who caused the death of my brother, and were the laws of England those of God, she would be hung as a murderess."

He looked again at the gallery, his eyes picked out a well-connected Countess. "Realize what sort of woman she is. Admit her not into your homes; keep her away from your brothers, sons, and husbands. Never speak to her, do not give her opportunity to dance at your balls, do not return her calls — she murdered my brother." Mr. Allen brushed at his eyes and continued in a slow catching voice. "He was the best of brothers. Not a day shall go by when I do not miss him."

Elizabeth's eyes were drawn to Darcy. He was tense and still; he stared at Mr. Allen with a deadly look as though to measure the moments until he might kill the other man. Elizabeth felt terrified. Her own misery at being named a whore in front of the judge, the jury, and the spectators, was swallowed up by claws of terror that ripped at her gut as she feared that even if the jury did not hang him, Fitzwilliam might yet be killed by this horrible situation.

Mr. Allen returned Darcy's stare. "Colonel Darcy, I bear you no ill will, and I shall not fight you. I shall refuse any challenge you might offer me" — he held his hand up — "this is not cowardice. You have already spilt my blood for your wife's honor. My brother is dead at your hand. Let that be your satisfaction. I speak only for him. My voice is that of a man you have already killed for these insults."

He turned one last time to the gallery. "I beg you, lords and ladies, do not ignore the accusations of the dead — that is all I have to say."

The gallery exploded in loud exclamations, everyone talking at once. It was a sick drone, and Elizabeth tightened her stomach to keep from vomiting. The weight of the stares as everyone pointed at her was like a nightmare, and she wished to sink through the floor. Maybe she was a murdering fortune hunter. She should have done everything to stop Darcy from dueling Sir Clement.

Mr. Allen sat down behind the large wooden prosecutor's table.

The judge slammed his gavel.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

He shouted out for silence, his long white wig falling off the back of his head, and displaying the shining bald top of his head before he reseated it. "I'll have silence, or the guards will drag you all out, no matter how high your rank is. This is my court. Silence." He banged the gavel again and again, and at last the crazed echoing murmurs of the crowd quieted.

The judge addressed the jury in a stentorian voice, "It matters not what that gentleman" — he pointed at Mr. Allen with a snarl — "says. He brought us here to make a mockery of justice. As Mr. Allen is a magistrate himself, I expected better. The reason you are here is not so Allen can defame Mrs. Darcy. You are here to enforce the law of England, the law of this land. According to the law, if two men meet by arrangement, after they have had time for their tempers to cool, to attack each other with deadly weapons and the intent to kill, and one of them does kill another, that is murder. It matters not how fair the duel was, or how honorable the conduct of the gentlemen was, or how good the cause for the quarrel was. If you believe Colonel Darcy came to that field, after a period of time for his temper to cool, with the intent to attack Sir Clement with a deadly weapon, you must find him guilty of murder."

The jury stared impassively back at the judge, a collection of well-dressed gentlemen in black frock coats. The judge pulled at his wig irritably, leaving it askew and added in a frustrated voice, "I tell you, it is also murder according to the laws of God, and He will have justice whatever you do." The judge waved his hand to release the jury.

Elizabeth felt a chill as she looked at the flat faces of the jurors. Fitzwilliam was guilty of murder. They all knew it. Surely the jury would listen to the judge's demand. How could they ignore such an order?

The jury left to confer in the room set aside for their use. The minutes that agonizingly followed were more terrifying to Elizabeth's soul than any she'd ever experienced. The galleries whispered and pointed, but all her attention was on the way Fitzwilliam continued to stand calm and unruffled.

The jury returned within five minutes, and the old gentleman with a full head of white hair who had become their leader spoke firmly to the judge, "We find the accused not guilty.


	16. Chapter 16

When he was released, Darcy was a little surprised that Lord Matlock did not approach him. However, Elizabeth was there, and she immediately embraced him tightly before they went into the carriage. He had an awful headache.

He forced himself to pay attention to Lizzy as the carriage broke into motion. "I told you there was never any cause for concern. No jury would convict a duelist when the forms were followed."

Lizzy nodded. Her hands were held defensively over her chest. There was something brittle in her eyes as she struggled not to cry. Her mouth was pulled into a thin frown. He wished the throbbing in his skull would go. "No one will believe that nonsense. Or maybe a few people, but tomorrow I'll talk with my uncle, and we'll come up with some plan to combat the story. It is a scandal, but there will be some way to manage it."

Her face was white. "Oh, I should never have — I swear. I swear, I didn't do that. I wasn't trying to get you to marry me. I really hated Sir Clement you must—"

"Lizzy!" He kissed her hand and then her forehead. "Nothing could ever make me distrust you."

"I was so sure they would hang you. It was murder. That was the law of the land, whatever the jury said. Oh, I feel so awful. Likely we both will be punished by the Almighty. And it is my fault you were in the fight and Sir Clement was killed. I did as good as murder him, and I nearly murdered you. I swear, he pushed himself on me. I didn't want to kiss him, I was frightened and disgusted, and helpless. I swear I wasn't trying to catch him, or you, or—"

She was shivering. A jolt in the road threw her closer against him, and he held her body tightly against his own. She sat stiffly in his hold.

He said in a thick voice, "Lizzy, I know. I know. You don't need to… You are the best person in the world. And it will be well. I will make it all well. I swear."

"Yes," she said in a tinny voice. "It will all be well."

"And that nonsense. Killing Sir Clement was less like murder in the eyes of God than what I did in India. He was a man who needed to die. That judge has hung many thieves who deserved death far less than Sir Clement. Someone who has sent so many men to their death for taking a bit of silver has no right to claim that I am a murderer in God's eyes when I put down that vicious, vile…"

Darcy wondered again if Sir Clement had raped Elizabeth. Even if he had not, he had planned to. If she'd been forced to marry him, it would have been a rape for all that he would have had a legal right to her body and a pretense of willingness. What Elizabeth said about feeling helpless. He pushed himself on me. Darcy wondered. His arm convulsively tightened pulling her against his side. But then he let her go, fearing that she might be frightened of a man's touch.

"It is my fault." Lizzy twisted her hands together. "I made you fight him. If…if I'd realized what would happen… I should have married him or stayed in that room."

Darcy felt something twist in his gut. Lizzy was distraught, and she did not actually mean to reject him with her words. "Don't be absurd. It was Sir Clement's character which demanded I fight him. If you'd married him, I would have been even more determined to kill him."

"But surely you…"

"If you'd married him, I would have still challenged him. And I would have arranged for him to be murdered if he killed me. After your letter…"

"See, it was my fault. I wrote you that letter. And I have always been very unladylike. You should… This will be so horrible for Georgiana. How can you live with me when everyone will think I'm a…a slut, a whore, a…?"

"Lizzy. Lizzy." He took her cold hands and squeezed them. "No one thinks that. My uncle will manage the stories, and we'll face them all down, and soon Mr. Allen will find his lies have failed."

"You won't fight him too? I beg you, I'll…I'll do harm to myself if you challenge him. I swear it."

Every delicate feature of her face was focused on him. He couldn't reply for a moment.

"I swear I will. You made me swear not to be unhappy myself if you died facing Sir Clement. And I wouldn't have. But if you fight someone again, I swear I will whether you win or not. You may show a terrifying unconcern for your own safety, but surely you are too…too much of a gentleman to treat me so cavalierly."

She was shaking with tension at the end of this speech. Darcy felt sick inside. "You must have gained a pretty notion of my character to think I'm so eager to fight duels."

"I've seen you challenge two men in so many weeks. Don't provoke Mr. Allen. I…I…"

Darcy let out a frustrated breath. He took her hands again. "I have no desire to fight him. I was angered and not thinking clearly when I challenged him, but I did need to when he slandered you so in such a public way. I am glad he refused me, and refused me in a manner that no one shall think ill of either of us for not fighting. Though I wish men to despise him."

The carriage came to a stop. And Darcy saw the marble columns of the façade of his family's townhouse.

Elizabeth relaxed at this. "You swear you shall not fight him?"

"Not over a matter of words and reputation. I swear I shall not."

They walked out. He felt dizzy and while his headache had been forgotten in the tension, it now returned. The setting sun was painfully bright, and he closed his eyes and leaned against the side of carriage.

"Oh. Oh. What is wrong? Are you ill? Are you? Oh, come in quickly. Should we call a doctor?"

Instead of worsening his headache, Elizabeth's quiet, worried voice acted to release the tension. However poorly she felt, she still was his wife, and she cared for him. He didn't shake his head, but opened his eyes to peer into her clear eyes that were shiny with tears. She'd taken his hand again, and she nibbled at her lip.

She looked far better than she had in the carriage when she'd been in a passion against herself. Instead of downplaying how poorly he felt, he replied, "I have a really awful headache; it makes me feel dizzy and rather sick. The brightness of the sun stabbed at my eyes. But that is all. There is nothing serious to worry about."

She pulled him inside. "It will be far dimmer inside." The instant they were in the house, not letting go of his hands, Lizzy said quietly to the housekeeper, "Mrs. West, bring some tea and warm compresses. Mr. Darcy has a headache. Fitzwilliam, would you like to rest on a sofa in the drawing room? I should call the doctor. Perhaps he can do something."

"No. I have these headaches frequently. I would like tea and compresses. Will you sit there with me? That is all I want; just let me hold your hand."

"Yes. Yes. Of course." Lizzy quickly pulled him to the drawing room, had the curtains all closed so the light was comfortably dim, made him sit down, and pulled off his boots, and generally fussed over him in a quiet comforting manner. Seeing how cheered she was by being able to do anything for him, he pushed away his normal stoicism and let her do so. Slowly the headache receded into a small pounding, and he sat up to drink the tea and encouraged Elizabeth to sit on the sofa next to him, which she did.

It turned into a pleasant evening, but near the end, when Darcy was tempted to kiss her or hold her, or make some indication of his desire for her, he was too frightened. She was so beautiful and perfect. Her smiles, and her face and her delicate hands. Every time he saw her, he adored her more deeply. He would try to court her, starting tomorrow. Lizzy deserved someone who would show her every respect rather than a focus on his own desire and needs.

The next morning they went to pick up Georgiana. The carriage from Darcy House to Matlock's residence took just a little more than five minutes to cross the few streets and blocks. Elizabeth was tense again, though not desperate in the way she had been after the trial. Darcy kept a tight grip on Elizabeth's hand and watched her white face. She squeezed his hand back very hard, and he could feel how she depended on his support.

Darcy knew he was not well himself. Anger ate at him each time his mind flashed to how she had looked while the ton stared at his wife from the galleries. It hurt him worse than the memory of how she'd looked when she entered the library at Longbourn, pale and unkempt, wearing that dirty food-stained dress.

He pretended he was calm, so Elizabeth would not worry. Worrying her over his headache had made her feel better, but he could not believe that letting her see the rage which burned in him towards all who thought ill of her would reduce her anxiety. He felt disgust for Mr. Allen, the watchers in the gallery, and even his uncle. Matlock never should have admitted to Mr. Allen that Georgiana had given him a letter of Elizabeth's.

The carriage stopped in front of the four story townhouse, and Darcy handed his stiff wife from the carriage. She looked at the imposing façade with wide eyes. Darcy pulled her hand up to his mouth and kissed it before knocking on the door. "They are family, and it will all turn out well."

"Yes… Family."

Perhaps that was not the most comforting relationship for Elizabeth anymore. It would have been better if Richard were here, since he liked Lizzy.

The butler opened the door. His face was cold and inflexible, and he dripped unstated disapproval of Mrs. Darcy. It would do no good to glare at him, so Darcy simply asked, "The family is in the drawing room?"

The butler nodded and led them through the opulent hallway with its paintings and black and white marble floor to the room. He opened the door and announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Darcy."

Darcy looked over the large room. Something was missing.

Georgiana wasn't there.

Because his attention was always on Elizabeth, he heard her tiny distressed moan. She then drew herself up taller and clenched her left fist in preparation for some verbal attack. Her right hand squeezed his tighter.

Anxiety settled deeper into Darcy's gut.

It was good Georgiana was not here. They could plan freely how to fight the ridiculous stories about Lizzy. Georgiana was so young that circumlocutions would be needed if she were present. In addition to his uncle and aunt, the Viscount was present with his wife, a woman Darcy had never seen. They all sat on the deep red Chesterfield sofas.

There was silence. Lord Matlock stood.

"Nephew. I have thought long and hard about this. Do not doubt that I have great affection for you. But our concern for the reputation of this house, for Georgiana, and even for you, demands unpleasant action." Matlock held his distinguished gray head high and pointed at Elizabeth. "This is the last time that woman shall be allowed into my house. We are all in agreement. None of us shall acknowledge her, and none of us shall acknowledge you if you are in her presence. None of us shall visit your house so long as she is resident, and we will strenuously encourage all our acquaintances to treat her in a like manner."

It was a flat slap from an unexpected source. Darcy felt too surprised to even feel angry. His hand reached down to grab where his sword hilt would be if he was in uniform.

Matlock intoned, "This grieves me deeply, but it was your foolishness in letting yourself be trapped by such a vile adventuress which has brought us to this point. I know you well enough that you will not come to the decision to cast her off quickly, so I must beg you both to leave now."

"You — you will turn against your family, your blood, due to the lies of that man? Everything he said was a lie."

"Fitzwilliam — that creature admitted she kissed Sir Clement. And she wrote to you, using your sister as a courier. Have you no concern for Georgiana's honor? Do you not see how shameful your wife's behavior has been?"

Elizabeth had withdrawn her hand from his. Darcy felt as though he needed to cling to her. Her arms were crossed defensively, and she stared at Matlock with her body turned sideways to him, like a duelist trying to present the smallest target.

"She did not invite his touch. She did not. She has behaved always in an affectionate and true manner. I can explain the letter, you see—"

As he spoke Elizabeth's eyes darted towards Darcy, but she refused to meet his eyes.

"She is a fortune hunter, and you are blinded by lust and stupidity. You will not be my nephew until you have separated from her, and you take the pretext for divorce her lustfulness shall inevitably give you."

Darcy's chest clenched with anger, like when he'd marched into Mr. Collins's study or when Mr. Allen had called Elizabeth a whore. How dare he imply Elizabeth would ever commit adultery? There was no productive way to channel the anger. It was all Darcy could do to not hurl his aunt's decorative vases to the ground. "So, Uncle, you choose to be the toy of a dishonorable man. We shall take Georgiana and we shall leave and NEVER acknowledge you again. I shall not force my company upon…upon filth."

"Your brother placed Georgiana under my guardianship. Not yours. So long as Mrs. Darcy is resident with you, I shall not allow Georgiana to communicate with either of you."

"She is my sister. Her place is with me and Lizzy."

"Mrs. Darcy abused her friendship. Mrs. Darcy was never her friend. You will realize that one day."

Elizabeth made some small sound, and from the edge of his eyes, Darcy saw her flinch.

Something snapped at seeing his dear Elizabeth treated this way. The world around him became tinted with red. He grabbed a vase from the nearest table and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a sharp tinkling sound.

"You filthy — filthy — damned — you — you — you!" Where was his sword? He needed his sword. Darcy's hand closed on nothing again and again as he tried to pull the sword from its scabbard. The scabbard wasn't there. He wanted to slice the grey face of his uncle; he wanted to kill every insult against his Elizabeth.

Realizing he did not have the sword, he shouted out, "Bring me a weapon — I will kill — kill — kill—" With jerky steps he came closer to his uncle and tried to punch him. But his hand was shaking too hard for him form a fist, and part of his mind still refused to let him strike the old man.

The viscount grabbed him, and Darcy violently shook his cousin off, punching him away. "Damn you — damn — damn. Are you not my friend? My family?"

"Get a hold of yourself, man."

Darcy grabbed for his sword, but it was not there. He swore, having no sense what he said, his words incoherent. He screamed horrible curses in the Urdu he'd learned from the Muslim guards. His arm waved about an independent thing. Yet again he forgot the sword was not there and grabbed for it. He wanted to hurt them.

His eyes fell on Elizabeth. She was pale and stunned. White, white skin. Trembling. And those accusing wide eyes. They seemed to have popped out from her face.

Seeing her face he realized what he was doing, and that he had lost control. Now with the sick sense of wrongness, he turned again to Matlock and shouted, "You have scared Lizzy — damn — damn — dadadadamn you to hell. May the devil eat your vile souls. May you suffer as betrayers deserve. May you be chewed by Satan for eternity. May you—"

Two burly footmen grabbed Darcy from behind and dragged him through the door and into the hall. He could get no leverage to struggle against them as they pulled him along, Lizzy following with a tottering stride. Darcy swore and cursed incoherently. A third footman opened the doors and ushered Elizabeth out. They physically tossed Darcy through the doors. Darcy leaped back up and started forward to attack the knocker again. Some part of him planned to punch his way through the thick oak door.

Someone grabbed his arm from behind. Imagining that it was another footman, Darcy shoved the person away as hard as he could. He looked to see. Elizabeth was sprawled on the grey paving stones of the walkway at the bottom of the steps on the street level. She looked up at him with a wet red face. Her hand cradled her arm.

She tried to push herself up, but seemed to have trouble standing. She was speaking.

Darcy heard nothing over the pounding in his head


	17. Chapter 17

_Oh Georgie,_

 _It is all so awful, and I cannot cease to feel it is entirely my fault for marrying Fitzwilliam._

 _I did not write you sooner since for the past several days my arm was sprained, but it now is quite well, and I have decided to start this collection of letters to be given to you when we are at last united._

 _However today I feel so low that I write mostly so that I can imagine your responses. You must have heard the story of how Fitzwilliam acted in the drawing room when we were thrown out by your aunt and uncle. It was astonishing; he became lost to reason and almost like a desperate animal._

 _I have never been so frightened in my life as I was when I watched him stamp towards your uncle with his arms shaking. It worries me so. He did not strike your uncle, even with such a provocation as we were given. But I had never imagined he would lose control over his behavior in such a way. I do not blame him for it; I am only worried for him._

 _After we were removed from the house, I did something foolish. When he went to beat upon the door I rushed up behind him, and he pushed me away, and I tripped down the stairs. It was entirely my fault, but Fitzwilliam has decided he hurt me and must punish himself, and he refuses to let me speak to him._

 _In the drive back to home, he said again and again, "I've hurt you. I've hurt you. Oh, we should not have married."_

 _The instant we returned to the house he locked himself in his study and rang for a bottle of brandy._

 _He has spent each day since then locked there, only leaving to sleep. He has not spoken to me, and I am so scared he will harm himself, but I do not know what to do. He drinks so much. Each time I try to speak to him he ignores me or says we shouldn't have married, and he wishes he had not hurt me._

 _I must do something. It has been three days now, and I swore to be his wife and care for him. Even if it was a mistake, we cannot undo it. I will do something to make him exit this awful state. It does not matter how. I swear I will find some way to make him speak to me._

 _Your anxious and guilty sister,_

 _E Darcy_

Elizabeth put the notebook into the top drawer of the massive gold embossed writing desk which had once belonged to Lady Anne Darcy. She looked at the brightly burning candles. It was too late tonight for her to determine and act on some desperate resolution.

What could she do tomorrow?

The study fronted onto the street, so it would be a terrible spectacle if she set up a ladder and then bashed out his window so she could approach him from the unlocked side. That would be saved for if she could not find a less destructive approach.

Elizabeth heard Darcy's dragging, wobbly steps, and she rushed out of her sitting room to try to talk to him one more time before he reached his room. He looked terrible. His inner shirt was untucked, and his waistcoat was rumpled and stained. Underneath his tan his face was pale and sweaty, and there were huge purple bags under his eyes. He looked delicate and sick.

She held her hands out. "Please, Fitzwilliam…"

He flinched away and threw open the door to his chambers, and an instant later the lock fell home.

Why had he ever been willing to marry her? He was right, it was a mistake. She could have stayed in the room, and he should have realized before he tied himself to her that rescuing her wasn't worth it. She had thought they would be friends, and she had believed their marriage would grow into deep affection and mutual love. Instead she destroyed his life and Georgiana's.

Elizabeth walked down the long hallway, holding up her candles. Tonight he'd left the door to the study open. She walked in with a determined stride. He had told her how happy her letters had made him. Surely if she wrote a letter to him and left it on his desk, he would read it. That would be a much better first attempt at snapping him away from this self-destructive course than breaking through the window and holding him hostage with a shard of glass to make him listen.

The stench of spilled gin and brandy hit Elizabeth upon her entrance. A half-eaten plate of meat and a bowl of soup sat on the edge of the desk. A large pile of envelopes spilled over the desk. Given how Fitzwilliam had lived in here for the past days, the room was surprisingly clean.

Elizabeth placed her candles on the edge of the desk and sat down on Fitzwilliam's large rolling chair. It was rather too big for her, and she perched on the edge of the brown leather cushion to look around for a piece of paper. Her eyes fell on the envelopes and papers strewn over the surface of his desk.

They were her letters written to him.

He had been rereading her letters. Tears popped into her eyes, and the anger at his refusal to talk to her that had been growing under her fear and guilt seemed to dissipate. She looked at them and picked a few up, rereading and remembering writing them. The tears kept coming back to her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand and the shoulder of her dress.

She needed to write another letter for him to read now. But when she pulled open the first drawer of the desk to look for a sheet of paper she instead found a pile of four notebooks. The one on top had written clearly on the front, "For Lizzy."

Curious, Elizabeth pulled it out and opened the first page:

 _Dear Lizzy,_

 _Thank you, thank you, and thank you a hundred, a thousand, and a million times for your letters. I feel as if I know you deeply through them, even though we have been absent for so many years. I feel as though…in my soul you are my dearest friend. There is no way I shall ever be able to repay the kindness and affection you showed me this way, but I shall always be entirely in your debt and service._

 _It has been two weeks since I left Bombay, and my primary occupation has been to read your letters and Georgie's. And then to reread them. I always keep one or another in my pocket to look at, and my attempts to return to my old scholarly habits are quite destroyed by the joy I get from rereading your dear, dear words._

I wish with this to return your beautiful kind favor. I want you to know me through my written words the way I have come to know you, and I shall write daily in this notebook, to give to you to read upon my return to England.

Elizabeth put down the notebook as the tears crowded at her eyes. There were so many pages and pages. She understood how it happened that Fitzwilliam had not given it to her yet. They had been so busy and thrown from one crisis to another since their marriage.

Something relaxed in her stomach. They were still friends. Even though she had let him marry her to rescue her, they still would be friends, and from that everything else could grow. She smiled at the first paragraph. No wonder he'd been willing to rush to marry her, when he felt such a deep debt, her Fitzwilliam would do anything to rescue her.

She would demand he stop this behaving in this nonsensical way since he owed her that as well.

Instead of continuing to search for blank paper, Elizabeth picked up the notebook again, and she read and read, even as her eyes began to blink and she started yawning, she kept reading the little stories about his life on ship, and the books he read, and the thoughts he had, and the way he had been so eager to see her and England again.

Darcy woke from the nightmare again. He struggled to pull his sword out to attack his uncle, but when he got it out, that brown skinned boy was running at him with the raised tulwar, and he stabbed him through the throat again. Then he saw and looked at the face as he struggled to pull his weapon free.

So far it was a familiar nightmare. But instead of being a boyish lad with a fuzzy beard, it was Elizabeth who he'd killed.

How had he made such a mistake?

Anything would have been better than tying Elizabeth to him. He'd thought he loved her, but he hadn't loved her enough to sacrifice his own need to have her. He could have rescued her without making her marry him. He now could think of several ways. At the least he could have offered a far larger bribe to Mrs. Bennet. He could have found several soldiers from his regiment to force their way in with guns, and then ran away with Lizzy to France. He could have… oh… why had he not tried to protect her from himself?

He had thought it was just the scars.

But he had lost control of himself and hurt her. He didn't deserve her. He remembered seeing her scared wide eyes. Her seated on the stoop cradling her arm was the other nightmare he'd had each day.

Darcy's stomach ached. He wished he could reach down and pull it out so it would no longer throb. His head ached, his muscles were sore, there was a pulsing spot behind his eyes, and Darcy flinched away from the dim light slipping around the curtains.

He knew drinking this much was bad for the constitution, but he had a vague hope that if he did it for long enough he would die and Lizzy would be free from him.

He vividly lived it again. The feel of a pair of hands grabbing his right arm from behind. Him forcefully jerking his arm forward and then throwing it violently back to throw his assailant away from him. Turning around to be prepared for the return of the person. Elizabeth on the ground cradling her arm.

It felt as real as life. Each time he'd seen Lizzy since then, the image of her wide eyes and cradled hand had superimposed itself on her face. He knew she was hurt by how he refused to speak to her, but he couldn't say anything when he was terrified he might harm her again.

Darcy splashed himself with water from the wash basin and drank several deep glasses of water. He felt as dry as he did during his fever. Then Darcy allowed his valet to strip off his dirty clothes. He'd spilled brandy all over the silk waistcoat again. Well Stanley's death meant he had more than enough money to waste on cleaning and replacing shirts.

He tottered out of his room and paused to control the way his gut heaved. He felt sick at the idea of drinking more, but his desire to hurt himself drove him towards it. Besides it would deaden the anxious feeling the nightmare had placed in his gut.

Darcy opened the door to his study.

Elizabeth was curled up asleep in his chair, wearing the heavy woolen night robe he'd seen her in last night. She was clutching one of the notebooks full of the letters he'd written to her to her chest, and he realized it must be the third one, because two others were neatly placed, one on top of the other on his desk. She'd also straightened the collection of her letters. A candleholder sat on the edge of the desk, where the candles had burned completely down to the nubs.

Darcy settled onto another chair and quietly stared his fill at his dear, dear Lizzy. He needed to stop for her sake. He had married her and he had sworn to love, cherish and honor her. His self-loathing was not an excuse to abandon those vows. She wasn't frightened of him, and he would…he would ask her what she wanted him to do.

The maid who cleaned his study entered the room, bringing with her a plate for breakfast. The sound woke Lizzy, who stirred and looked around in confusion. Then she saw him and smiled tremulously.

He smiled back at her.

She yawned and twisted her neck back and forwards and stretched. Once the maid left she smiled again and said, "Sleeping in your chair, not comfortable."

Darcy nodded. He tried to find words to apologize for hurting her, and for how he'd behaved for the past days.

"No more. Do you hear me?"

Darcy nodded at Elizabeth's sharp tone.

"Our marriage may have been a mistake, but you are my husband and you — you wrote I am your dearest friend. That is what we need to be happy together. You will stop this horridness, and you will be my friend and husband, and I do not care how guilty you feel, you will stop acting in this way."

Darcy stared at her.

She stamped her foot. "Do you understand?"

He nodded. "I won't ever again. We are the dearest of friends, and I will never pull away from you like this."

"You promise?" Her voice was suddenly thin and weak.

"Never again."

Elizabeth hurled herself into his arms and sobbed into his chest. Darcy cautiously held her against him


	18. Chapter 18

After breakfast Elizabeth challenged Fitzwilliam to a game of chess. Neither of them paid much attention to the play. Despite their promise to be the closest friends, Elizabeth still felt a constraint. They talked about light topics during breakfast, and she didn't tease him about the aftereffects of his several days of drinking, though it was clear he felt terrible.

Any other time she would have been laughing at him, but Elizabeth was still scared their new peace would dissolve if she said the wrong thing. And there was the shocking way he'd behaved at Lord Matlock's. She had never seen anything like it, and while it did not scare her for herself, she wished to know if… well if he acted in that manner frequently. But she couldn't ask. Or she could, but she did not yet dare to.

Both of them played the first game abominably, though Elizabeth won after less than a half hour. Instead of feeling delight she simply turned the board around and they reassembled the pieces. Both of them knew these games did not really count, but were simply a way to pass the time before they felt more comfortable speaking.

Suddenly, when the board was nearly fully set up, Fitzwilliam said, "Lizzy, I've had, since I was wounded, I occasionally have these spells."

Her hand froze as she was replacing her last pawn.

Fitzwilliam looked away from her and hunched his shoulders backwards. He then added in a rush, "I swear, I had no notion I'd ever behave so. I never had lost control of myself like I did. Not even when we were released, and they wished to starve us. If I'd known I would become a danger to you — I swear, I wouldn't have… I would have found some other way."

"You mean this was the only time you have ranted and became so wild?" Elizabeth's voice caught. "I was so scared as you struggled with the footmen. I never have felt so awful except — oh this has all been so awful. The trial and the duel were even worse. But you do not do that regular? What happens usually when you have these spells?"

He shook his head. "I… well I clench my jaw and sit firmly and just wait for it to go away. I swear I did not know I could behave like I did. I suppose I have not often had such spells when I needed to speak with someone. I…I was a little out of control when I confronted Mr. Collins."

"You were?" Elizabeth gasped and felt like something tore in her stomach. He hadn't been in his right mind when he had asked her to marry him. She should have realized, he had been so odd and quiet, and he'd talked about that headache. If only she had realized. No wonder he thought it was such a mistake to have married her.

She was just what Mr. Allen had claimed her to be.

Fitzwilliam grabbed her hand. "Forgive me, Lizzy, forgive me. Don't look so miserable. Now you see why I thought it was best for us to stay apart. I might hurt you, I have had a nightmare like that every night, and I keep seeing you again cradling your arm, and your wide eyes. I could not—"

"Nonsense." She looked up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze and stared at his lap. He thought that was why she felt so miserable. He was so kind and self-effacing, of course he wasn't thinking about how horrible she had been. The guilty feeling grew into a painful lump at the back of her throat.

Elizabeth said in a rough voice, "You are white this time. Go first."

Fitzwilliam randomly pushed a pawn forward.

"I confess I was worried that this would be a regular matter. But you have set my mind entirely at ease about that. Your uncle acted wrongly to separate you from Georgiana."

"And to insult you so viciously."

Elizabeth made her first move. "You had strong provocation. We shall avoid such situations in the future. Besides you did not hurt anyone even so."

"I hurt you."

"You did not. And it was an accident. I should have at least made sure you could see me before I touched you."

He pulled at his cravat and stared at the board. Elizabeth felt the knot grow in her throat. Fitzwilliam brought a knight out from behind the line of pawns. Elizabeth stared at the little crystal eyes of the carved marble piece.

She would not let him be miserable over this. "St-stop that. No more. You swore. I will feel miserable if you cannot accept that I have no reason to fear you. I will think it is all my fault."

"That is absurd."

"So is drinking yourself to death because you pushed someone who grabbed you from behind when you were in such a state."

Fitzwilliam rubbed his hand against his scar, brushing his finger again and again over the round spot in the center of it. "I would have done serious harm to my uncle or cousin if I'd had my sword."

"No. I saw how you could not bring yourself to strike your uncle."

"Maybe." His eyes now met hers. "I am frightened. Scared more than I was before battle."

She reached across the board to take and pull his hand up to kiss his knuckles. "I am not."

A flush crept into his cheeks, and Fitzwilliam smiled at her.

They played quietly for several turns. Elizabeth realized she'd made a bad mistake two turns before, but Fitzwilliam then made an even worse one that let her take a knight for free.

A sudden thought crossed Elizabeth's mind. She hated herself for the question, but it ran out of her mouth anyways before she could stop it. "Sir Clement. Were you in a state when you called him out and fought him?"

His head jerked up. Then his face settled into a calm expression. "Not at all. I was completely calm then. He was a dangerous man obsessed with you. I had a real fear he would attempt to abduct you if left at liberty. Tomlinson promised to kill him if he survived the duel, and I was glad for the opportunity to fight him. I intended to kill him as completely as he intended to kill me."

"Oh." It was an odd feeling that she felt at this speech, but there was more of pleasure and admiration for Fitzwilliam than anything else. It was almost barbaric to feel pleasure at the knowledge that he had killed a man, not for her honor, but for her protection. But she did.

Suddenly Elizabeth shivered, as she imagined herself feeling perfectly safe and then Sir Clement grabbing her again. His voice heard through the door shouting at Mr. Collins. She is mine. Mine. Mine. I've kissed her and marked her. Mine. The sly baggage is mine. Elizabeth let her breath out in a puff. "It is terrible but I am glad he is dead. He might have. He made me feel helpless."

She seized Fitzwilliam's warm hand, and kissed it again. "You are the best of men. Do not ever doubt it."

"I…I do not think so." His eyes turned distant. "I killed two other men. In India. It was my duty then. I…I have slept well with Sir Clement's death. But…one of them was just a boy. He ran at me with his tulwar, and he was shorter than me. I stabbed him through the throat and my blade caught in the bones of his neck. I lowered the body and stepped on his chest to get the leverage to pull it out, and I saw his face. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. He had that fuzz boys get when they begin to shave."

She pulled her chair around the table and embraced him. "Oh, Fitzwilliam."

"I had nightmares about it. The other man I killed was full grown. Much older than myself with a huge beard. And he nearly did for me. He was like Sir Clement. But the boy. Except these last nights, in my nightmares it was your face instead of the boy's."

Elizabeth did not know what to say to that morbid revelation. She realized he had a tendency to take his own mistakes far too much to heart. So she said that.

Fitzwilliam smiled. "I suppose I do."

"Stop. Unless in the future you make a regular practice of ranting as you did at Lord Matlock's, I shall feel perfectly comfortable about the matter. I do worry about those spells you say you have, but it seems you are too self-controlled, except when those you love are attacked, to be a danger to anyone."

"I hope you are right."

"Well I know it. And as you married someone far wiser than yourself, you should take my wisdom for your own."

"Are you so much wiser?" He smiled again, this time genuinely.

"Yes. But you already knew that. I have a natural advantage as a woman, and I have put my time to good use in improving it."

They settled back, in a more cheerful mood to play another round of chess.

Afterwards Fitzwilliam said, "I had a thought. You wrote in your letter that you wished you had been able to shoot Sir Clement, like a man — I assure you, that is not a requirement to use a gun. Perhaps you would like to learn?"

"Even if I knew how, I would never actually shoot someone."

"No." Fitzwilliam tapped the table and looked forward. "I would hope the circumstance never came. But it might make you feel safer to know that if you needed it, you had access to a gun. But also, we have been in quite a poor mood, and you might enjoy shooting. There is nothing quite like handling a gun. That is my main motive."

"Now, Mr. Darcy." Elizabeth cast her gaze down and looked demurely at him under her lashes. "Shooting a gun. Such an unladylike occupation. I am shocked you could suggest it."

He laughed and said, "Do you mean to say Mr. Bennet taught you? You never mentioned anything of the sort in your letters so—"

"No, no. You knew Papa. He was far too busy encouraging other unladylike habits."

"Quite right of him too. I always said I despise those sorts of frippery girls."

"Yes." Elizabeth remembered what Mr. Allen had said about how he'd not seen any Englishwomen for half a decade.

"Lizzy," he spoke a little hesitantly, "I only was joking. You are—"

"Oh no, I am not offended. It just made me think of something." She gave a sparkling grin. "Let's find a gun range that will let a lady try shooting."

It proved not to be a difficult task, and they left the house that afternoon for the location Tomlinson had found.

The gun range was a drab building, just far enough out from the fashionable district so that the noise would not bother anyone important. Elizabeth looked around with intense curiosity, delighted by the expedition. Fitzwilliam understood exactly what sort of spectacle she might enjoy. The walls were decorated with guns and guns and guns. Long blunderbusses, rifled hunting pieces, dozens of pistols ranging in size from huge things she would barely be able to lift to tiny muff pistols, so named because they could be hidden inside a lady's muff. Behind the counter there was box after box of powder and bullets.

The gunsmith who ran the location shook Darcy's hand. "You wanted to teach your wife to shoot, Colonel Darcy?"

"Yes."

He put his hand around his ear. "What did you say? Oh, yes. Teach your wife to shoot." He was an overweight man with fingernails that were blackened from powder and an amiable expression. "Good notion. Most gents like you don't do no such thing, what with having your women followed by footmen and grooms and maids and other people everywhere. I'm close enough to those pretty districts to see it. And if you have the money I suppose you can do that. For my part, I never let my daughters out of the house if they don't have a muff pistol with them. Stopped a robber more than once, I'll say."

They went to the range in the back. A line of pistols sat on an unvarnished shelf. It was a grassy open-air yard with the line of targets in the back. Elizabeth immediately giggled. The target she was facing had been replaced by a life-size effigy of a man who was clearly supposed to be Mr. Allen.

"You really were disappointed that he promised not to accept a challenge."

"Not at all," Darcy replied. "I have not the slightest desire to enter a duel over a matter of honor. However, I will not hesitate to gain an exceedingly petty revenge. Besides, it was set up for you to shoot at him. Be honest, do you not have the slightest desire to shoot his visage?"

Elizabeth looked between her husband and the target. It was silly, but she liked the idea very much. Fitzwilliam took an unloaded gun from the shelf and explained how it worked and, holding her hands, moved her through the process of loading it. "Always be careful at what you point it at if there is no safety notch."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"It can be surprisingly easy to forget," Darcy replied dryly.

It was so pleasant to have him stand right behind her and raise her arms and explain how to sight down the barrel of the pistol. It seemed to her to be a short distance to the target. Fitzwilliam said, "Now brace yourself. Good. Pull the trigger."

Bang.

It went off with a loud sound and a poof of acrid smoke, and the shock of the recoil went up her arms. "Ha! Ha, ha, haha." Elizabeth turned back grinning to Fitzwilliam. "Oh. Lord!" She bounced up and down. "Ha, ha, ha. That was… Hahaha. Again!"

Fitzwilliam's eyes lit up at her heartfelt delight.

The gunsmith handed her another pistol with the safety on. He was grinning. "Be careful, this one is loaded already. I thought you might want to shoot off a few. This time try to manage it without the gentleman's support."

"Of course." Elizabeth carefully looked at the weapon, and remembering the instructions removed the safety and pulled the gun's hammer back. She bit her lips with an intent frown as she carefully sighted down the barrel, hoping to hit the target this time.

Bang.

Fitzwilliam laughed as he took the pistol's dark wooden handle from her. "Missed again."

"Oh." She held her hand out. "Well give me another one."

They continued shooting for another hour, and by the end of it Elizabeth was peppering her target, which admittedly was quite close, one shot out of two. It was in fact a satisfying way to strike back at the helplessness she'd felt. And she had no idea it was so much fun to use a gun. No wonder men didn't like women using them.

Then they went into the shop, and she chose an ivory handled muff pistol with gold filigree for her own. Though despite the gunsmith's belief every lady should carry a gun, Elizabeth had no intention of ever keeping it on her person. She would quite prefer to have her jewelry and pocket money stolen than to hazard the use of such a thing.

Fitzwilliam asked when they got back to the house that evening, "So a good expedition?"

"The best." She gave him a tight hug, and he returned the embrace in his cautious manner


	19. Chapter 19

Richard visited the next week. Darcy was glad to see his cousin immediately smile and take Lizzy's hand. "My father and mother's treatment of you has been shameful. You deserve nothing of how they have scorned you. I never believed I would be shamed by my family, but I am. I am heartily ashamed to be connected to Father. The instant I heard how he separated you both from Georgiana, I immediately set affairs in order so I could visit. Believe me, not everyone has abandoned you and Darcy."

Darcy had never been so pleased with his cousin as he was at this moment. Lizzy smiled at Richard tearily, and Darcy could see she was deeply affected by the support. "Thank you. Thank you. But I…I do not blame them. Your father and mother. I understand." She pulled her hand back and rubbed under her eyes. "I know how it appears. It does appear very bad. They…do what they think best."

Darcy took her hand and squeezed it. "They are wrong. Richard, I am desperately glad to see that you are still my friend. Elizabeth is my wife, and one should not treat family so, no matter what. But have you seen Georgiana? Your father? Shall you be in great trouble for visiting us?"

"Georgie is well, though very angry with my father. He is still enraged with you. He is not pleased with me either, but—"

Lizzy exclaimed, "Oh, no! Will he disown you for visiting with us?"

Richard smiled at Lizzy. "It does not surprise me that you worry more for me, than for the insult to yourself. But I do not believe so. He was unhappy when I said I would visit you two, and he made me swear to pass no messages from you to Georgiana, and I had no choice but to do so, else he would not let me see her. In any case at present, I must be back to Bristol by midday tomorrow."

The group sat down in the sitting room and Lizzy called for tea and a light meal to be brought.

Darcy said, "Georgie belongs with us. I am her brother; Elizabeth is her sister. If Stanley had known I'd be home so soon, he would have named me the guardian. It is foolery that my lawyers insist that if I challenge them in Chancery the will would be upheld."

Richard spread his hands open, and then took the cup of tea Lizzy handed him. "Thank you, Mrs. Darcy — Elizabeth. We are family. May I call you by your Christian name?"

"Oh, yes. You are Richard? I would love to be on such terms with you." Lizzy showed his cousin a shining smile, and Darcy saw she was delighted that at least one member of his extended family accepted her.

The two shook hands heartily.

"Do tell me what Georgie said when you saw her?" Lizzy asked. "You did not promise to not pass any messages from her to me."

"She misses you and railed at me for a full five minutes before she paused long enough to give me an opportunity to assure her that I think you are truly her sister and that she belongs with you, no matter what my father says."

Lizzy's eyes shined with humor. "She is usually so shy."

"Not when those she loves are insulted."

Darcy asked, "You think there is no chance you can do anything to convince Matlock to let us at least see her regularly?"

"No. No chance that I can see." Richard shook his head. "I do not even… I am sorry, Elizabeth, but I do understand his point. He is worried about Georgie's future. The entire ton is alight with the story of your trial. They believe that damned—" Richard's face flushed, and Darcy raised his eyebrow. "I apologize for the language. I am used to being among soldiers."

Lizzy giggled, as Darcy said dryly, "So am I. Even moreso than you, I daresay, but I do not forget myself."

"Mr. Allen," Richard snarled out the name. "I think very, very ill of him. He must have seen what sort of a man his brother was. He was at the duel; he heard what Sir Clement said…and then to exact such revenge against you…"

"Life is often not fair." Elizabeth forced a calm smile, and she sipped at her tea. But Darcy could see the good humor that was in her eyes a minute before it was gone. "Your father fears friendship with me would make it impossible for her to marry well when she is of the age to do so."

"Yes, all of the titled fools are convinced you are… well, no need to speak about it in detail. We know it is nonsense. Father is right, about the difficulty it would cause for Georgie. Her fortune will always attract some men, but the better sort would not wish to attach themselves to such a scandal."

Elizabeth settled her tea cup and saucer on the dark wood table with a harsh clank. "She is lost to us. Until she marries your father will prevent any friendship, and then her husband will."

"No." Richard took Lizzy's hand. "Your sister will no more forget you than you would forget her. I know Georgie will be stubborn where it matters. She would not marry a man who would not permit her to see you."

"But you said that the scandal would keep anyone Lord Matlock would let marry her from associating with me."

"I think…men will do things for the woman they love they would not do for a stranger. A man who would not pursue an acquaintance with her if Georgie lived with you might be very willing to let his wife see her beloved sister despite the scandal."

"Ah." Lizzy bit her lip. "It is such a worry. She is still so young. And as you said she has such a fortune. I do not trust your father to be wise. He is too impressed by appearances."

"You worry as a good sister does."

Before Richard left he and Darcy went to the study to talk a few minutes by themselves. "Truly, Richard, do you think Georgiana is well? And…your father? I…I was not—"

"You were not quite sane that day. I heard from both my father and my brother and the footman. Damnation man! What happened?"

"I hardly know. It was… I have had moments of rage since I was wounded, but this time I could not control it. It was foolish of me. Perhaps we could have managed things with Matlock to allow some connection…"

Richard shook his head. "He is absolutely convinced Elizabeth is the worst sort of fortune hunter, and that she hoped you would be killed. Nothing I could say to him about Sir Clement's behavior changed his attitude at all. I do not think he is rational about the matter. This is exactly the sort of scandal he always avoided. Your Elizabeth saw his character very clearly. He is too impressed by appearance."

"Damn all that nonsense about marrying well. I don't trust Matlock either to tell what sort of man Georgie should marry when she reaches the age. She wrote me letters while I was in India; she has been lonely and unhappy at that school. She needs to be with those who care for her, not sent back there without even Lizzy's letters. It doesn't matter in the slightest whether she can hope for a match with an earl. The sort of man who would unhesitatingly believe such scandalous stories about Lizzy is not a fit man for my sister. Your father is a fool."

"Perhaps." Richard tugged at his sideburns. "In any case…Darcy, you are not well. I think I saw that during the fight with Sir Clement. I am not at all sure you should have management of a young girl until you have…left behind whatever happened to you."

Darcy looked at the somber color of the hardwood floor of his study. He also wasn't fit to be the husband to a vivacious young woman such as Elizabeth.

Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "Darcy, do not look that way, you did not harm anyone. I should not have said that. It is not true in any way. You would be a better guardian than my father is likely to be, and…"

"It is true."

"No. Not very true. Besides, many men come back haunted by ghosts. I feel guilty that I can claim to be a veteran of the war but did not fight the way you did."

"If you do not use it to brag too much…" Darcy forced a half smile. "You have my permission to tell whatever stories you wish to impress pretty girls."

"'Tis better to look somber and let them assume the story. Frown and say it is not a matter to be talked about. And my adventures with the French girls in Quebec really would be best left unsaid in conversation with other women."

Darcy laughed a little. He and Richard shook hands, and then Elizabeth returned, and she and Richard amicably shook hands and parted.

Over the next weeks the household settled into a comfortable pattern.

Darcy consulted several more lawyers, but they all agreed there was no possibility of his gaining guardianship of Georgiana. He also spent several days talking with his London investment managers to get an understanding of his financial matters. Lizzy went with him to both the meetings with the lawyers and those about money, and she participated in the discussions quite as much as he did. Darcy loved to see how his Lizzy had such clever questions, and how she could do figures in her head far better than he could.

They went through the London tourist sites: the houses of parliament; the British museum; the London Bridge; various gardens and theaters; the royal menagerie at the Tower. He called with Elizabeth on a few officers he'd known who were stationed in London or visiting town on leave. His friends were polite, but whenever people from the ton recognized him and Lizzy, there was that air of disgust towards them. Generally, they avoided such locations.

Darcy had made a mistake when he made Elizabeth marry him, and he was far happier enjoying her smiles and conversations than he deserved. He desired her, she was beautiful and everything that was lovely.

He thought she did not have any sentiment towards him except what a woman might have towards her favorite brother, and while she freely touched him and embraced him, he was frightened that he would show all of his feelings if he responded in kind, and he only took and held her hand on his own initiative.

One morning three weeks after the trial, Darcy and Elizabeth walked before breakfast in the park in the center of the square his house was built along. It was that time wavering between spring and winter, and just a few leaves had sprouted out. As they walked around, he saw a girl of about fifteen who he vaguely recognized as belonging to one of the houses that bordered his own sitting on a bench with two other girls, and their footman stood behind them.

The girl pointed at Elizabeth, and Darcy saw her talking in high spirits to her friends, all of who laughed.

He ground his teeth and glanced at Elizabeth who, after a slight pause, said with mostly unforced cheer, "Fitzwilliam, you can hardly blame the girl for eagerly pointing out the local sites to her friends."

Darcy bit out, "In our own neighborhood. I know we contribute some tens of guineas to the park's maintenance each year. What an ill-bred useless girl."

"Now do not say that. You can hardly know that she is useless."

Something in Lizzy's voice and the way she regarded him made him swallow his temper. And really, it was a trivial silly thing to have a schoolgirl laughing at Lizzy. It was beneath his dignity to respond to her behavior.

They made the circuit of the park's footpaths again, and the girl still sat with her friends and pointed at them again. She flushed and then paled at Darcy's glare, and with a giggle the group stood and walked in the other direction.

"Now you've frightened the poor dears."

Darcy growled out, "I ought to approach her parents. Tell them about how their daughter is accosting gentlemen going through the park and making a spectacle of herself."

"Yes, that is quite like what they feared when they made off so quickly."

They entered their house, but the incident gave Darcy a vague haze of irritability that seemed familiar to him. It was an unpleasant feeling, even though Lizzy seemed not to be bothered.

She removed her gloves and went upstairs for a moment, and then they sat down to breakfast.

Lizzy chattered easily, they had no particularly fixed plans for the day, but any thought of walks or visiting parks, or anything else, seemed undesirable to him.

Forcing himself out of his distraction, Darcy shook himself and said, "I know I shouldn't be such a bear. But it put me off my temper."

Lizzy, in one of her gestures of sisterly affection, immediately squeezed his wrist. "I will take it as quite the proper order of things that my brave knight is set more amiss by a schoolgirl's insult to me than I am myself."

He did not manage to become completely calm. There was that haze over his thoughts that he was sure he'd felt before. He drank his coffee but he did not have much appetite for the breakfast itself, which he stirred around with his fork more than eating.

Lizzy had an adorable habit of mixing several dishes together to take bites with a horrible mish-mash of flavors, and so she inevitably ripped up ham and fish with a knife to eat bites with both together. He thought that if she hadn't been convinced to not do that with the cook's greater creations at dinner, he would have been forced to hire a new cook. Their London cook was displeased they were putting on no great entertainments where his skill could be tested.

When the footman who hovered in the background to serve them saw that Darcy had set down his coffee cup, he immediately moved forward to refill it, but with an unusual clumsiness, as he moved to resettle the pot, he knocked the cup into Darcy's lap.

That stressed haze he'd felt for the past day burned into a sudden flash of anger. Darcy ground his teeth and for an instant he wanted to throw the empty cup of coffee on his lap across the room and through the window. He remembered suddenly that he'd often felt that haze of irritability before the spells of anger in the prison or on the ship home.

As always, except when he'd faced Mr. Collins and when he'd faced his uncle, Darcy forced himself to be still and self-controlled. He was a man. He clenched his jaw and breathed slowly. He unconsciously sat up straighter as he felt the tightness in his chest rise and several urges to shout at the poor footman flashed through his mind. He knew the feeling would soon peak, and then fall leaving him with just a headache.

A squeak reminded him of Lizzy's presence. She stared at him with wide eyes like she'd stared at him in front of his uncle's house. He saw her cradling her arm once more. With a sudden flash he suddenly felt helpless and wished to beat his hand against his chair until it hurt. Lizzy shouldn't ever see him like this. He didn't want her to see him like this. If she just disappeared for a little, in ten minutes the feeling thudding in his chest would be gone.

It was completely stupid to be angry about the girl in the park and the spilled coffee. It was a trivial matter. Calm down. Calm down.

Elizabeth watched him with those wide eyes, the skin around her eyes taut, and every bit of color was gone from her cheeks. This proved he should stay away from her. Maybe she would flee now that she saw it again.

She cautiously moved her hand towards him. He pushed his chair away from her and growled, "Don't."

Elizabeth flinched and sat far back in her chair, with her hands in the air. He noticed in that tense moment the freckle on her nose, and the thin curved line of her eyebrows. Such a beautiful girl deserved a better man than he was.

Damn, damn, damn. He felt helpless.

He should be able to control his emotions. His fist clenched and unclenched helplessly.

Elizabeth said in a soft voice, "Do you mind if I speak?"

Darcy pulled in a deep breath. Then another. "If you wish."

She made a tiny hopeful smile and said, keeping her tones low, "Well, let's remember some pleasant time. Our trip to the continent. Do you remember that opera we went to, in Italy, with the castrato singer?"

He closed his eyes and concentrated on her voice. "Which one?" There wasn't much sharpness left in his tone.

"Well, we did see a great many concerts. I was thinking of the revival of the Handel opera about Caesar. The first one we saw when we reached Firenze." She hummed a little.

"I remember the tune. You enthusiastically bounced as you listened, while Georgiana was bored and kept begging for my attention."

"Yes, and you had to switch seats so she would bother me instead."

Darcy smiled at the tension leaving his body as his mind went back over the years to a happy memory. "You convinced Georgie to pay attention to the music. I believe it was that night when she gained her obsession with music."

Elizabeth slowly stretched out her hand towards him again. He took it and briefly kissed it. "I am feeling more in control of myself."

Some tension that had been in Elizabeth let go and she slumped against the leather back of her chair.

Darcy felt his stomach unclench. She was still here, and he hadn't hurt her. She had been right that he wouldn't. "Lizzy." She looked at him with her clear bright eyes. "Thank you."

Her eyes smiled.

Darcy smiled back at her, but then he grimaced and pressed his hand against his forehead at the pain from the headache. It thudded and pulsed.

She squeezed his hand. "What is it?"

"After…after my spells, I always have a dreadful headache."

"How does it hurt?"

"All around, and in the back of my neck and in my teeth."

"Oh, good."

Darcy quirked his eyebrow at her.

Elizabeth stood up and walked behind his chair. "Can I touch you?"

Darcy blinked at the question but nodded.

Elizabeth placed her fingers around the side of his head and pressed her thumbs in small circles behind his skull. "Papa used to have headaches like that. We deduced that it was caused when he read too much with his head bent forward. I saw how you were clenching your jaw. Maybe it makes the same muscles tight."

The feel of her hands was divine. Darcy closed his eyes and relaxed with just the sensation of her fine fingers and surprisingly strong hands. He sighed and smiled.

"There," she said at last. "Do you feel better?"

Her skin was clear and pretty, and there were freckles on her cheeks as well as her nose. He grinned at Elizabeth. "Not at all, I believe you should try again."

Elizabeth laughed and swatted his forearm. She obediently worked her fingers into his neck once more with a wide smile. "Do tell me though — does it help?"

"Immensely."

"I always could help Papa's headaches this way."

Darcy did not like being seen like a father or brother. He wished Elizabeth saw him as a lover. It was something he had no right to demand. To keep unpleasant thoughts away, he said, "Do you think we should?"

Elizabeth giggled. "The referent?"

"The opera. Would you like to see a show tomorrow night?"

Elizabeth had moved down to the bottom of his neck and the tops of Darcy's shoulders, but she stopped rolling her fingers into his stiff muscles to clap excitedly. "Oh yes. I haven't been since last time I visited London, more than a year ago. Oh yes."

The first half of their evening proceeded well. They entered the box early and waited as the opera practiced and the boxes filled with Society. Elizabeth eagerly chattered, talking of the plays and operas she'd seen over the past years, and what she had heard about the tenor and soprano who would sing. She hadn't seen this production before.

Darcy never knew much of music, and except what he'd relearned from Lizzy's letters, he had completely forgotten everything he had known. But enthusiasm lit up Elizabeth's eyes, and he listened eagerly and strove to attend closely enough to her words to understand.

The opera house had a huge central room with a wide gallery of red cushioned seats, and large boxes for the wealthier jutting forward from around the half circle of the building. The boxes filled with richly dressed men in silk waistcoats with handsome walking canes and women with handsome feathers flapping from their large hats. People stared at them, and Elizabeth saw that too. Except for occasional darted glances, she refused to look at the boxes. Of course, they would stare at the first entrance of the famed fortune hunter and her pathetic dupe into such a public space.

Darcy impulsively grabbed Lizzy's hand, and she replied with a brilliant smile and a squeeze.

At last the tall red curtains were pulled back, and the orchestra began the prelude. The beautiful strains of music rose and fell. The tune gave the impression of flowers or a spring day, before leaping into something like a thunderstorm or a skirmish.

Lizzy kept her hand sweetly tucked in his, and he loved the feeling of her little fingers wrapped around his. Even if he couldn't demand closer affection, they had this.

The fat tenor strode onto stage, and Elizabeth was entranced by the music, and she smiled intently and following along in the libretto, held up occasionally in her left hand. She never tried to pull her right away from his, even when it made it difficult to open the next page of the libretto. Darcy paid little attention to the scene and the songs. His wife's rapt face kept his attention.

She was lovely, and the dim lantern light lit her with a soft glow. Her lips were parted and her eyes shined as she whispered along with the repeated refrains of the songs. Her free hand sometimes swung to and fro keeping beat with the music.

When the intermission came, Elizabeth and Darcy grinned at each other and Darcy said, "Bellisimo, beautiful."

Elizabeth laughed. "It has been so long since I had such an evening — thank you, thank you. I am so glad you are here with me. The soprano, there is such a clear tone to her voice."

They walked arm and arm into the upstairs lobby. Even though there were a few people who Darcy had known before he went to India, none approached him or Elizabeth. But a great many people looked at them. Elizabeth's eyes darted around the room, and she led him to a row of seats against the wall.

With a smile she sent Darcy off to gather drinks. Right after Darcy took two punch glasses from the waiter, a gentleman clapped him on the shoulder. "Shocking that you are willing to be seen with her. Did you have any notion before you married her what she was like?"

It took Darcy a moment to recognize a man who had been a close friend of Stanley's when they were school boys. Darcy glared at the knowing look in the man's eyes and said, "Shocking that you are willing to listen to stupid nonsense. I thought you cleverer than that."

"Now I was at the trial myself. Heard in front of the whole company how she admitted to kissing that baronet you killed. Must have been a shock for you to realize you'd been played so. Now look, you've been a recluse, but if you want to come by the club…well me and Stanley's other friends will make you welcome. Not your fault you got trapped so neatly. Just give the lady her pin money and stick her somewhere far away from you. Your life isn't completely ruined, you know."

"If you think I wish any such friends…" Darcy ground his teeth together. "I apologize, but I must return to Mrs. Darcy."

As he got near to Elizabeth, he saw a woman walk past her. Once this woman saw that Elizabeth's attention was on her, she theatrically took out her handkerchief to press over her nose and waved her hand as though she smelled something disgusting.

Elizabeth watched the woman with dry eyes and held her thin shoulders stiff. Darcy could see the hurt and humiliation she felt behind her brittle façade. The woman noticed Darcy standing with his hands curled around the glasses. She tittered nervously and walked off. Darcy nearly threw the liquid into her face.

Elizabeth stood up and ran to him, but once she saw how he was trembling, instead of touching him, she bit her lip and looked side to side anxiously.

Darcy stiffly extended his arm out, and Elizabeth took the punch. She didn't drink it. He didn't drink his punch either.

Darcy asked in a thick voice, "Who was she? Do you know?"

Elizabeth shook her head to show she did not, a quick darting motion. Her eyes studied his face.

"What sort of…of hussy…of vile, vicious…"

Elizabeth seized Darcy's free hand and entwined her fingers with his. "Please don't yell. Please don't yell."

They were in a public space and everyone watched. Darcy breathed slowly and made a tiny nod. He concentrated on the sensation of Elizabeth's hand. People around them sneered and pointed.

Darcy ground his teeth together and squashed Elizabeth's hand. He looked at Elizabeth; she blinked quickly to keep tears away.

Darcy pulled Elizabeth along with him to one of the doors that lead to the outside.

Once they were out in the cool air, Elizabeth cried, and Darcy held her close. He told the doorman to have the Darcy carriage brought around, and quickly.

"Forgive me," Lizzy choked out, "I am ruining our evening. And I must look a fright. I shouldn't be crying, I know."

"You look perfect."

After three minutes their carriage clattered over the paving stones to the curb, Darcy's coachman sat on the front box. There were four horses and a giant set of springs. Lanterns hung from the corners of the carriage and another swung on the inside. Darcy opened the door and handed Elizabeth in.

He took her hand and entwined their fingers together again as soon as he was seated next to Elizabeth. He concentrated on the sensation of each of her delicate fingers squeezed between his and the warmth of her hand. "Did you wish to watch the rest of the show?"

She mutely shook her head, the motion barely visible in the dark.

Darcy wondered if it was his own flash of anger, or the rudeness of complete strangers which had destroyed Elizabeth's enjoyment of the evening. His free hand rubbed over the raised ridge of his scar and the patch of skin that felt nothing.

Squeezing his hand more tightly, Elizabeth turned her head towards him and said with false cheer, "While the soprano was excellent, the tenor was not nearly the equal of the one I heard with Georgiana last year. I had decided to leave in any case."

"I know, I know." Darcy realized tears were beading up on the edges of his eyes and he was glad that the darkness meant Elizabeth could not see them. "The performers we see in England are nothing to those in Italy or France."

Elizabeth leaned her head against his shoulder.

They rolled past the lit lanterns sprinkled about this fashionable quarter and occasionally a night watchman, swinging his baton and holding a lantern aloft.

Elizabeth raised her head and looked at him in the gloomy night. "Fitzwilliam, can we…can we go to Pemberley?


	20. Chapter 20

Elizabeth had not been to the north of England since Mr. Darcy died, but her memory that the scenery along the Great North Road was beautiful had been correct. It was a beautiful trip. Everything would be better once they reached Pemberley. The tension in Fitzwilliam would fade away, and she wouldn't be scorned the way she was in London. And she loved the countryside so much more than the city. She'd had no long rambles since Mr. Collins imprisoned her, and she was eager to visit those loveliest fields and pathways of Fitzwilliam's estate again.

Perhaps he would at last come to her some night.

Even though she had only been there for Mr. Darcy's death, the big manor always seemed to be a happy place in her memory. The countryside was growing green and alive with spring, and every turn of the road brought new and pretty vistas.

During the carriage ride she and Fitzwilliam talked easily, held hands, and played silly games. He could make her laugh, and he listened to her with all his attention.

Things felt right on the road to their home.

Elizabeth quizzed Darcy, who hardly remembered himself, about Pemberley. It would only be a few more hours before they would roll up before the welcoming house with its massive length of galleries and wide portico. "Mrs. Reynolds is still the housekeeper?" Elizabeth laughed. "Remember how she pretended to be so angry while smiling at us behind her hands when we ran about and played hide and seek. Such a large house deserves to be used for such games — promise me we'll play a round or two for old time sake."

"But of course. The only reason I had not suggested a game of hide and seek in London is because, as you said yourself, the house is not quite large enough. But Pemberley is an excellent place for such games. I recall a spot where you will quite despair of finding me."

"Oh! I am so excited." Elizabeth grinned at Darcy who grinned back. "But you did not say, is Mrs. Reynolds still the housekeeper?"

"Yes, I received a half-dozen letters from her about household matters while in London."

"She liked me very much. What about the cook — he would always let me steal a biscuit and take a little morsel of meat from the soup."

"I'm afraid Mr. Lyons left us shortly after my father died. I have no notion who is the present cook."

Elizabeth puffed out her lips and pouted. She had liked the old cook a great deal. But she smiled again bouncing up and down on the springy seat. "This will be perfect. I shall walk, and walk, and walk. Even in London I still felt confined." Fitzwilliam frowned. Elizabeth quickly laid her hand on his arm and shook her head. "It just isn't the country. No city park is. Endless rambles and the ability to walk for mile after mile with mainly trees and cows for company. But your gardens. I hope nothing has happened to any of them."

Darcy grimaced. "I do not know — Georgiana would've mentioned in one of her letters to me if Stanley had decided to do anything particularly horrible to improve."

"Do you remember how we sat in the library — it is such a large library, I fear my walking may suffer — and I and Georgiana listened while you pretended to be grown up and argued freely with your father and mine."

"I recall that you pretended to be very adult and argued quite freely as well."

"Maybe I did." Elizabeth grinned at Darcy.

He took her hand. "It shall be perfect. We will be home at last."

Elizabeth loved when he took her hand. She always initiated any embraces or closer contact, but he loved to squeeze her hands. It made her feel warm and safe. He was so wonderful.

Ten days later Elizabeth knew that Pemberley had not changed everything, even though she was a little happier.

Fitzwilliam was more relaxed. He loved the process of coming to know his estate, meeting all of the tenants, going over the records, studying agricultural pamphlets, and long discussions with his steward. Elizabeth loved the way he eagerly talked about how they could do good for the community and encourage the commercial development of the area. He needed active occupation, and his eyes lit up now that he had it.

But Elizabeth had changed the misery of scorn in the city for the misery of rural scorn.

No one called.

The rule was that when a new person arrived in the neighborhood, the local families would call and deliver their cards, and then the new arrival would return the calls to begin the acquaintance.

A few gentlemen made calls on Darcy, but no woman left her card for Elizabeth.

Why had she been so stupid? Of course the story would've spread to Derbyshire.

Mrs. Reynolds was nothing like she remembered. She was now gray-haired and had a stiff frown for Elizabeth. Elizabeth had easy cordiality with Mrs. West at the house in London, and they exchanged gossip and discussed plans every day. But then she'd seen Mrs. West many times when visiting Georgiana. Mrs. Hill had the same relationship with her mother and Jane. Mrs. Reynolds avoided anything but the most businesslike interactions.

Elizabeth didn't want Fitzwilliam to see how unhappy it made her, because he would blame himself and remember that it had been a mistake to marry her, and become angry and start trembling with one of his spells. She would feel even worse.

Besides Fitzwilliam couldn't force the community to treat her as a real gentlewoman.

Elizabeth still was happier than before, in fact she was, strangely, happier than she had ever been before. She missed parties and balls, and talks with her sisters and friends, but having Fitzwilliam there was much better. He was the best, cleverest, and kindest friend she had ever had.

Each day Elizabeth sat in his study with him as he poured over account books and read his treatises. He actually asked her to look at the accounts, since she had just as good a head for numbers as him. Actually her head for numbers proved to be better than even his. And it made her feel so proud of herself and wonderful when he eagerly sought her opinion on any non-trivial problem with the estate. Fitzwilliam's plans became her plans, and there was this sweet connection between them as they talked and thought together about the land, and the house and every other matter.

Then after hours together in the study, they would talk and laugh and read together at night. Several evenings when it was clear they bundled up and used an old telescope to study the stars, and Fitzwilliam talked about how the constellations in India had been different, and Elizabeth babbled about the books on natural philosophy she had read from Papa's library.

Being near him made her happy, happier than she could have imagined being before. Even the worry about Georgiana and her ostracism was a small thing next to the glow she felt when she watched him with his head bowed over the account books, or listened to his strong voice reading to her in the drawing room during the evening, or best of all when he squeezed her hand on the carriage ride to church.

She thought he was happy too. He smiled, argued with her, took her hand, and just talked. But…why had he never consummated the marriage? It was the one anxiety in her marriage. Elizabeth wondered if she should ask him, but she was too scared of the answer. He couldn't have wanted to marry her, and he'd only done it to rescue her. What if he didn't desire her at all? She felt sure that he couldn't desire her, because she knew men were supposed to always be desperate for a woman's favors, and if he had wanted her he would have asked.

It made her want to cry. But Elizabeth was too happy just having him near to let herself cry over the matter more than twice. She thought she loved him as a woman should love her husband, but if he only loved her as a sister, she had no right to demand more from him. It was enough.

Fitzwilliam was gone right now, calling on a neighboring estate to talk with the owner about repairing a bridge. Elizabeth knew that Mr. Hunt had been a friend of Fitzwilliam years before, and she had urged him to stay and do gentlemanly things with his friend if he could. Her husband was not deeply social, and she knew she was dear to him. But Elizabeth was sure that he must desperately want the occasional company of another gentleman. It was simply not the same to only be social with a woman.

It was a bright day, but Elizabeth had already walked in the gardens for more than an hour. She was bored. She went to the library, and brushed her fingers against the spines of the books. She looked through the endless shelves for something to read.

Nothing, including several novels she promised herself she would read, a collection of Wordsworth's poems, and Catullus in the Latin interested her. As an act of desperation, Elizabeth selected a thick volume from Thomas Aquinas's Summa Theologica. She opened it to a random page; after a few minutes she felt confused and even duller.

She wanted to talk. Writing letters she could not send to Georgiana was not enough.

Elizabeth slammed the volume of medieval philosophy on a rosewood side table and looked around to the library. Maybe she should use one of the rolling ladders, and move it around so she could look at the books on the top shelf.

She looked at the globe sitting on the floor. It was taller than she was. She walked over and ran her hand over the ridges placed in it for mountain ranges. It was amazing how small the Alps were against the scale of the whole world. They had seemed enormous to a girl of eleven.

Elizabeth lost interest and sat back down in a disgusted heap. She looked at the large tilted podium where the book inventorying the library laid splayed open. Elizabeth tapped her hand against the edge of the chair she was seated on.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She remembered those busts of Plato and Aristotle seated above the fireplace. Mr. Darcy had purchased them when they were in Rome from a real Italian sculptor. She sometimes had stared at them when they visited Pemberley. Aristotle had a more terrifying visage than Plato. She once had an unpleasant dream of being lectured by him with that giant beard wagging disapprovingly.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The painting above the fireplace was new. She remembered clearly that it had been an old faded painting of a battlefield scene with a man on a horse surrounded by rushing soldiers carrying muskets. It had been to celebrate when one of the Darcy ancestors served under Marlborough during Queen Anne's War.

Now there was a rococo French style painting, with a girl wearing a giant poofy dress and blushing while looking sideways at a gentleman leaning his face towards her.

The old portrait was better. What happened to it? She was sure it had not been sold. Not with the historical interest. She should find out where it was.

Elizabeth looked around the room; besides the globe, the painting, and the busts, there were at least a dozen other valuable objects, not including the books.

When was the last time everything in the house had been inventoried?

There must be a list of everything owned by the house somewhere. Elizabeth decided she would find it and go through the house room by room to make sure nothing was missing. That would keep her occupied for…at least until Darcy returned. She would probably be able to use the same expedient next time he was away from her too. Besides it was useful — the sort of thing the mistress of a great house should do when not calling on neighbors or preparing dinner parties.

Elizabeth's first instinct had been to ring for Mrs. Reynolds, and ask her to bring the inventory and walk around the house with her explaining things, if she were not too busy. Elizabeth frowned. From how coldly she had been treated by her, Mrs. Reynolds must think she was the fortune hunter everyone claimed. She would put the worst construction upon a desire to look at the valuables.

No. Elizabeth would do this on her own.

She went to the room where the estate records were kept, but there were a great many handwritten books there. Elizabeth needed five minutes of dusty searching before she found the book she wanted. Each time she heard the footsteps of a servant walking along the hallway she cringed, as though she were doing something wrong.

The inventory book was thick and large, and when Elizabeth flipped through it, she saw long lists of wardrobes, silk wall hangings, silver spoons, collections of china with each item listed, including the chip in one of the glasses, every sofa, etc., etc.

It was intimidating.

She wouldn't let herself be intimidated by her husband's estate. Elizabeth determined she would rise to every challenge. This inventory was dated to three years prior, so there should be a fair amount of objects that had been added or broken or sold since it was produced. The perfect thing to absorb hours of time.

Elizabeth grabbed several lengths of pencil lead and two large pieces of rough paper, and snuck out of the room looking back and forth to see if any of the servants had seen her.

She went to the library to start and mentally ticked off each object, while penciling on her sheet for objects not listed, such as the lascivious statue of Venus with exposed breasts sitting in a corner. Elizabeth could tell it had not been made by a master. It seemed like the sort of thing Fitzwilliam's older brother would have bought.

The time slowly went from late morning to early afternoon as over the course of three hours Elizabeth went through five of the dozens of rooms. She was glad Fitzwilliam had taken her advice and spent several hours reconnecting with his friend. It made her happy to imagine him being happy and with good company. She wasn't lonely; she would have him to speak with tonight.

When Elizabeth came to her own apartments, the mistress's sitting room had a large iron chest with a big heavy lock. Elizabeth had noticed it before and assumed it was where the family jewels were stored. In the inventory book the list of jewelry that should be in the box went on for some three pages. A number of the pieces had been marked out as reserved for Georgiana when she came out.

Elizabeth bit her lip in thought. She must remember when Georgiana turned sixteen to have those pieces removed and sent to her. Maybe they should be sent immediately as a gesture of goodwill?'

No. Elizabeth shook her head. Lord Matlock would misconstrue anything. Best to wait until Georgiana was old enough to use the jewelry.

Elizabeth read through the descriptions again and laughed. So many diamonds. Some of the descriptions were fascinating, while others seemed only ostentatious.

This would be great fun to look through. She would model all of the pieces she could wear in the mirror and find something pretty to wear for Fitzwilliam when he returned tonight. Afterwards, she would return the inventory book to its place, and perhaps finish the house some other day when she was bored again.

Elizabeth rang for Mrs. Reynolds.

When the housekeeper arrived she said in a cheery voice, "I need the key for the jewelry box. I've decided to look through."

Mrs. Reynolds's greying hair was collected in a neat bun at the back, and she wrinkled her face into a grimace. The housekeeper gripped her hands tightly together.

"You do have the key? Do I need to speak with the butler or steward?" Mrs. Reynolds said nothing, and Elizabeth laughed nervously. "Do not tell me that I shall need to find someone to break that heavy box open. It is an antique. If the key is lost, we will hire a locksmith, there is no hurry."

"Ma'am, I apologize, but I will only give you the key if the master has given me the order."

"Oh." Elizabeth breathed in and out shallowly. Mrs. Reynolds stood straighter now that she had said her purpose, and while she did not stare at Elizabeth with a challenging gaze, defiance was present in every line of the housekeeper's form.

She had been so stupid as to think anything would ever become better.

Elizabeth tightened her jaw and said in a clipped voice, "Might I inquire why?"

Mrs. Reynolds made no response.

Elizabeth's chest was tight with anger at every person who had cut her since her marriage. "Answer me! I am your mistress. If you do not explain I will have you sent off without reference."

"Many of the pieces in that box were from Lady Anne and have been set aside for Miss Darcy. I would insure my lady's property is safe."

"I am not a thief." A red film fell in front of Elizabeth's eyes. "I am no… I am a gentlewoman of good descent, and that you accuse me—" Elizabeth clenched her jaw so tightly that she could not speak. She suddenly felt what Darcy must experience in his sudden rages. A desire to curse and strike things. She opened her mouth to order Mrs. Reynolds to resign and immediately leave the house.

Instead she wailed plaintively, "I hoped you would be my friend. Don't you remember being kind to me when I visited before Mr. Darcy died?"

"You were a girl then. But I should have seen in your wildness the weakness of character you've shown now. To use the poor master in such a way, when he had been away in India for so long, and out of any civilized company. It was not right. It was not right. Mailing an unmarried gentleman while you were near engaged to another — I was shocked to hear the girl I remembered acted so immorally. But if you expect us now to be friends… Actions have consequences."

Elizabeth did not know whether to cry or rage. Her throat tightened. Actions have consequences. She had never imagined she could be treated this way by an employee. Everyone but Fitzwilliam despised her.

Eventually he would see what they all did and hate her too.

"P-p-please." Elizabeth pushed the inventory book into Mrs. Reynolds hands. "I…I have been checking the contents of each room against this list. T-t-to ensure everything is as it should be. Ch-ch-check the jewelry box."

Elizabeth fled the room.

Darcy whistled as he walked back into Pemberley from the stables. Mr. Hunt had been a good friend years before, when they were both lads playing around their estates, and he'd turned to pugilism as a sport in between the hunting seasons. Darcy had spent the afternoon receiving an impromptu lesson from the boxing master Hunt had hired. He'd been taught bits of the noble art years before, but had made no effort to rebuild his skills since leaving India.

Before going inside, Darcy found the gardener and asked for some fresh blossoms to be cut as a small token of apology to Elizabeth for staying away two hours longer than he'd told her to expect. She had wanted him to spend time with his friends, but he liked having an excuse to give her flowers.

Holding the flowers in an unwrapped bundle, he asked a footman where Mrs. Darcy was and went to the library as directed.

He expected to see her with both legs extended and her nose buried deep in a book, while a few of her curls fell over her ears and forehead.

Elizabeth sat in an unladylike posture, with her arms around her legs and a dejected look. Her face was mottled with tears, and a sodden handkerchief sat on the table next to her. Darcy felt a stab of anxiety and wondered if she had been hurt by his delay in returning.

She glanced at him briefly, and then returned her dead gaze to the mantelpiece above the fire.

Darcy hurried to Elizabeth's side, and he knelt down and took her hand. "Lizzy, what's the matter?" Elizabeth rubbed at her eyes with the back for other hand, and Darcy thought she was beginning to cry again. "Please don't look so — I brought you flowers. See?"

Elizabeth somehow launched herself onto Darcy, so that he found himself seated on the floor holding her while Elizabeth squeezed him as hard as she did the morning after the duel. She sobbed and sobbed into his shoulder. The flowers were scattered around the rug.

What had happened to her?

Darcy tucked Elizabeth's head tighter against his chest with his large hand and kissed her hair again and again. "I'm here. I'm here."

She nestled herself tightly against him, and tears came into Darcy's eyes as he rubbed her back. He didn't know why she was crying, but when she hurt, he hurt.

She said in a muffled voice. "I shouldn't weep. You don't like to see me unhappy."

Darcy felt guilty. He remembered how angry he became when Elizabeth was cut at the opera. How she'd needed to beg him not to shout at the crowds. "Lizzy, I hate it when you are unhappy. But if you ever wish me to hold you or comfort you…" He squeezed her again and slowly kissed the top of her hair, breathing her perfume and scent. "There is nothing I want more than to comfort you if you need comfort."

Elizabeth relaxed and he thought she smiled.

"What is the matter? What happened?"

She stiffened in his arms, and Darcy rubbed his hand down her back, his fingers sliding over the tightly woven muslin fabric. He whispered, "There, there. It's all right. It will be all right. You needn't tell me."

"You…you'll hate me t-too. Eventually you'll hate me. Like everyone else."

"Never. You will always be unspeakably dear to me. No matter what, you shall be the dearest creature in the entire world to me. You are my favorite person, and I'll stand to defend you against everyone."

Elizabeth sighed and relaxed against his arms, turning into a weight slumped sweetly against him. "You always say such pretty things. Why don't you ever…"

"What is it? What do you wish me to do?"

"I thought it would be better here. But everyone despises me. The neighborhood, the servants, you are my only friend, and one day I shall lose you."

Darcy stiffened. "A servant said something to you?"

His chest was tight. A member of his staff. An employee had insulted his Elizabeth. His teeth involuntarily ground together. In the place she should be safest and perfectly cared for. He would destroy them. He would ensure they never could be employed again. He would —

"Stop, stop, stop. Fitzwilliam. Please, I beg you. Don't, don't, don't be angry, not now."

His head throbbed and his teeth clenched. Darcy looked down at Elizabeth who held him tightly. Her round deep eyes looked into his, and tears were beginning at the edge of her taut face. "I need you. Don't be angry, just hold me."

He seemed to see himself from the outside with his clenched muscles and vibrating anger, while his dear, sweet wife needed him. Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy.

The tension left Darcy's hands, and as his grip loosened, some of the worry he saw in Elizabeth's eyes left too. He buried his face against her hair, inhaling deeply through his nose, inhaling her essence. With each deep long breath his anger left through his mouth as he exhaled and the trembling and throbbing in his head was left as a distant feeling.

Elizabeth's arms were around him.

When he lifted his head Elizabeth looked in his eyes and she smiled at him again. Her sweet lively smile.

A servant had insulted her.

Darcy pushed the thought away. Later, when she was not there. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, kissing her hair once more.

"None of them matter." He stood up and pulled Elizabeth with him. Darcy smiled. "We should do something silly. Do you still want to play hide and seek in the mansion?


	21. Chapter 21

Elizabeth didn't seem to be unhappy about what had been said to her anymore, but he hated that she was isolated like in London.

When he asked again last night, she wouldn't tell him what was said, or who the servant was. She'd begged Darcy to let her handle it on her own. She was the mistress, and she must manage the servants on her own. Further, she did not wish the person responsible to be dismissed. She even begged him to say nothing of the matter to Mrs. Reynolds.

The only reason Darcy let her have her way was because he had begun to grow angry again.

He felt so stupid, he'd just assumed Elizabeth had been called on by the ladies of the neighborhood and was returning the calls on the days he was not there. He barely knew what the proper etiquette was. He'd entered the army at eighteen and such matters were not important for officers too young to marry.

When Elizabeth said nothing, he had just assumed.

After breakfast Darcy ordered his horse saddled. Elizabeth followed him to the barn, her small brown boots crunching over the gravel walkway. The morning sunlight brought out golden highlights in her hair. Elizabeth smiled softly at his close gaze. She was nervous, and he thought Elizabeth planned to deal with the servant whose name she wouldn't give after he left.

His dear Elizabeth. She didn't want him to fight this battle for her. After they'd gone to bed, he'd dreamed of her holding him. Darcy hated that she had been sad, but the way she sought his comfort made it one of his happiest moments.

She gave him a quick embrace and kissed his cheek before Darcy mounted his horse. He wished he dared to pull her tight against him and kiss where her neck curved into her shoulder, her mouth, the little cleft between her collar bones.

He leaned over in the saddle to take Elizabeth's hand. "I… if you need my help I…"

"This is my matter to manage."

"Don't let it make you unhappy. You are dear to me to be… none of them matter."

"Do not worry so." She clenched her small fist and stood up straighter. "I am the mistress, and I will manage this matter."

Darcy smiled warmly at her. "I know you will. You are the bravest woman I know."

Elizabeth laughed, though there was something in her manner which was still tense. "You say that because you attribute every virtue to me. As my husband should. Though I confess I have given you cause to think highly of my bravery, so it is only when you attribute other virtues to me that I will resort to teasing."

Then she waved him off. "Go on, go on. Make your call. I shall handle my own matters."

He set off on the short trip he'd taken the day before to see Mr. Hunt again.

He now realized the old acquaintances who had called upon him had done so in a manner that allowed them to avoid an introduction to Elizabeth. Darcy felt an anger deep in his bones. Not the spells, but a matter of family pride. Until one reached Matlock to the south or Chatsworth in the east, everyone for ten miles around was beneath his family in consequence. He would not stand for mistreatment of his wife.

When he arrived, Hunt stood on a lawn to the side of the house with his shirt off lifting over his head a section of a log that had been planed down to the yellow wood. The boxing master chanted out a rhythm, and with each call Mr. Hunt brought the log from one shoulder to the other.

Upon seeing Darcy, he gave a grunt and lowered the log to the ground. A watching manservant immediately handed Mr. Hunt a towel, and then his shirt. As Hunt buttoned the linen, he said, "Darcy, whatever brings you back so soon?"

The sense of helplessness and anger that he felt the previous day returned. Darcy squared himself and said in a quiet voice, "I understand your wife has not left a card for Mrs. Darcy."

"Now, Darcy — I believed you understood…"

"Understood what?"

"Well, things have been said. Now I do not say I believe them, but you must know that things are being said."

"I did not ask about things being said. Why has Mrs. Hunt not called upon Mrs. Darcy?"

Mr. Hunt rubbed his hand through the short cropped hair at the back of his head.

"Dammit! By Jove, answer me."

The echo left a sharp crack.

"Things were — I heard…people heard what happened at your trial. It was printed in the record of the court and the gossip rags. Now, well…the ladies talked — you know how ladies are. They talk…to each other…a great deal — and, well, they think not every woman resident in the neighborhood should be part of the neighborhood. You do understand… Things were said."

"Everything said by Mr. Allen was a lie. Every word. He is a scurrilous liar who should be shot and hung."

Mr. Hunt had finished buttoning his shirt. He pulled on his coat and held his hands out placatingly. "I believe you. I do."

Darcy said, "She is your wife. You have authority over her — order your lady to call upon my wife."

"Now, Darcy—"

"Do not put me off."

"I would never hear the end of it. Ladies are not so easy to command — now that you're married, you'll find that out eventually."

"Are you a lady yourself? Be the man in your house."

Mr. Hunt looked down and scuffed up a pile of dirt with his boot. "Is it so important? We will accept you. And you are the one who was hurt by this marriage and her—"

"Damn you." Darcy spat on the ground. "Damn you. That is what I think of your friendship. I want nothing to do with any of you — I ought to… your wife is a vicious empty headed…who…"

Mr. Hunt drew back wide-eyed and pale. The muscular man suddenly looked like a frightened child. Like that boy with the wispy mustache he'd killed at Kollipur. Darcy's rage had brought him to the edge of saying things that might cause another duel.

Darcy closed his eyes and breathed in; he remembered himself inhaling Elizabeth's scent the previous day. Lizzy. Lizzy. Lizzy.

"I apologize." Darcy felt shamed for having lost control. He only lost so much control when Lizzy was hurt. "Since I took a serious fever in India, my temper has at times not been under good regulation."

"I understand — no harm done. No harm." Mr. Hunt spoke in a shaky voice. "Nothing to forgive."

"Then understand this also. I shall have no connection with anyone who is not willing to meet my wife. When we conclude the business of that bridge, send your steward to mine. I shall not meet you again, unless it is to introduce Mrs. Darcy to you and your wife.

"Must it be that way? We were friends."

"It must." His rage threatened to break free again. Darcy called up the sensation of Elizabeth's arms squeezing him tight as he pressed his lips against her hair again and again. "I shall send a letter of this import to everyone in the neighborhood. Understand, any contribution to community affairs, such as the assembly's support, will not continue. I will have nothing to do with the neighborhood so long as the neighborhood excludes Mrs. Darcy. And come hunting season, if your dogs cross into my lands, I will have them shot."

Mr. Hunt shook his head up and down wide-eyed. "Certainly. Certainly — none of them will."

One of Hunt's servants and the boxing master were watching them. Darcy turned and nodded his head to acknowledge the teacher, and then, without saying any words of goodbye, mounted his horse and rode away.

Elizabeth watched Fitzwilliam ride off. She needed to confront Mrs. Reynolds about her insubordination. Her stomach felt queer and anxious.

Must she?

She needed to. If she couldn't, she would fail at being the best wife for Fitzwilliam. He didn't want her in the other ways a husband wished for a wife, so she must do everything she could.

Elizabeth went to her sitting room and rang for Mrs. Reynolds. The housekeeper entered with an erect head and calm dignity. She wore a clean, well-cared for muslin. Her hair had mostly turned grey, and her face was lightly wrinkled.

It was absurd for a girl of nineteen to berate a woman of more than fifty. She did not belong here. She never would. Mrs. Reynolds belonged.

You are dear to me.

She had to do this for Fitzwilliam. He was fond of Mrs. Reynolds but would dismiss her immediately if he heard about the conversation yesterday. She could do this. For Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders and said coldly, "Mrs. Reynolds, did you inventory the jewelry?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And everything was present as it should be?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Miss Darcy is my dearest friend, and you wished to protect her possessions. You have served this family — my family — loyally since before I was born. This time, this one time, I will forgive your disrespect. Should you ever speak to me again in the way you did yesterday, I will be forced to dismiss you."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Enough of that. You will cease to treat me in this distant manner. Whatever you think of me, it is the wrong way to treat the mistress of the house. If you cannot serve me as you should, I ask you to resign and I will give you a perfect reference. Otherwise I will be treated by you the way you would treat me if I were the daughter of an earl. Do you understand?"

Mrs. Reynolds nodded.

"Say it."

"You are the mistress. I was out of bounds yesterday, and I will act as I should towards you in the future."

"Mr. Darcy will hear nothing of this matter. He would be very unhappy if he learned it was you who suggested I was a thief. You will collect every item you believe belongs to Miss Darcy. Darcy and I will examine the collection together, and then we will send all of the items to Matlock straightaway."

Mrs. Reynolds blinked and nodded.

Elizabeth waved her hand. "You are dismissed."

Mrs. Reynolds left. The tension drained out of Elizabeth, and she almost laughed in nervous relief. She had done it. She had done it.

Elizabeth grinned at her own refusal to be cowed by a servant, even one with as much dignity as Mrs. Reynolds.

Elizabeth was in an excellent mood as she waited for Fitzwilliam to return. After a brief turn about the garden she settled in the library with a fluffy nonsensical French novel.

When Fitzwilliam came into the library to join her, his shoulders were slumped, and he flinched away from the sunlight streaming through the broad window. Elizabeth quickly put her book aside and started up with worry.

"Are you well? Oh, you have another headache."

She pushed Fitzwilliam to sit and brought him a glass of wine. She then bit her lip and looked at him.

"Forgive me," he said. "I tried — I asked Mr. Hunt to make his wife call on you…but…"

Worry squirmed in her stomach. "You didn't…argue…"

Darcy took her hand and pulled Elizabeth to sit next to him. "I can usually keep my behavior under good regulation. I was angry, but I said nothing which will lead to trouble. Do not worry, I will never do anything which would lead to another duel."

Elizabeth let out a long shaky breath. She squeezed Darcy's hand. He was unhappy, and she knew his errand had failed. But so long as he would not fight again, she did not care about any of that.

"The ladies…the ladies of the neighborhood made an agreement to refuse acquaintance with you. I shall have nothing to do with any gentleman or group whose members refuse to acknowledge you, but while the loss of our patronage will hurt the assembly and other local associations, that will not make them welcome you. I don't know what to do… Forgive me, Lizzy, I wish…"

"None of them matter."

"Lizzy, I know you are lonely and—"

"None of them matter. I have you, and Georgiana will not forget us, and when she comes of age she will return to us, and — it doesn't matter."

"You…you love company and activity, and it is just the two of us. You can't be happy this way. And it is my fault that I cannot force them to accept you, and I just want you to be happy; beyond anything I just want that."

He looked so miserable with his red lips turned down and the guilty worry in his eyes as he looked at her. He was so worried that she wasn't happy, but despite yesterday, she was. Impulsively Elizabeth kissed Fitzwilliam's scarred cheek. "Don't worry about that. Don't. I am happy. You are my dearest friend in the world. Being near you makes me happy. Aren't you happy too? Despite everything. Do say you are happy."

"Lizzy. I must worry about anything which hurts you."

"Please. Just tell me that we are happy. I am. I am. With you I am."

Elizabeth bit her lip and looked at him pleadingly. After a long moment he smiled at her, perfectly dimpling on the unhurt cheek, and still loveable and handsome on the scarred side. Her heart fluttered, and Fitzwilliam took her hand and squeezed it tightly. "I am happy. Happier than ever before. Being near you makes me happy."

They looked into each other's eyes, and Elizabeth realized she wanted Fitzwilliam to kiss her. Instinctively she half licked her lips. Rather than what she hoped, Fitzwilliam responded by looking away, still squeezing her hand, and staring at the wall for what seemed like a long moment.

"I promise I will never do anything to hurt you."

"What?" Why was Fitzwilliam suddenly talking about that? "I know you won't. It was an accident. You ought to trust yourself."

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let go and smiled slightly at her and said, "I do. I can manage myself, for you."

Then Fitzwilliam suggested a different subject, and the moment of desire and connection she had felt dissipated. Despite how warm what Fitzwilliam said about being happy with her, the conversation left her oddly dissatisfied and desiring something Fitzwilliam seemed unwilling or unable to give her


	22. Chapter 22

"And therefore I conclude by repeating again the august words of our holy book, 'Blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy.'"

Their vicar, Mr. Wickham, had at last returned from being watered in Bath, where he had been since the death of Fitzwilliam's brother. Elizabeth thought he likely should have not stayed away from his parish for so many months together, but, though he'd been dilatory in attendance on his duties, he made a fine sermon.

The light streamed through the stained glass windows, making the pinewood altar appear green and red. Despite the warm stuffiness of the late spring, Elizabeth had no difficulty staying awake for the sermon.

Mr. Wickham had a rare talent for keeping attention upon himself as he spoke. He smiled at the congregation, lowered and raised his voice, used repetitions and broad gestures. Above all, he seemed to enjoy the process of giving a sermon. His skin was a healthy white, and when he looked at her, he had a penetrating gaze. His hair was perfectly curled and his suit had a tight fashionable cut.

Elizabeth waited next to Fitzwilliam as the flood of parishioners left. It had been two months since they arrived, and Elizabeth's only new acquaintances were Mr. Wickham's curate, Mr. Painter, Fitzwilliam's tenants, and the poor parishioners she made charitable calls upon.

She had worked closely with Mr. Painter, as Elizabeth gave a great deal of money to the local poor, even to those who were not Pemberley's tenants. The marriage settlement Fitzwilliam had made on her gave her a vast amount of pin money, but she had nothing to spend money upon. She would not be the extravagant creature they believed she was. Everyone watched her, and she would disappoint them.

No doubt, they believed her charitable efforts were because she had a guilty conscience.

Mr. Wickham stood in the doorway to shake hands and smile at the parishioners as they shuffled past him. Elizabeth did not know what to expect of Mr. Wickham, as Mr. Painter was new and had only been present for six months, and he did not know much about Mr. Wickham. The church echoed with the din of conversation bouncing against the wooden beams of the roof and stained glass windows as everyone spoke to their friends as they shuffled out.

Darcy had waited patiently in the pew with Elizabeth because he wished to speak to the vicar. Mr. Wickham had been a friend of the family from boyhood, and Elizabeth thought she had seen him once or twice, without being introduced, while Mr. Darcy was dying. But she didn't remember for sure. Fitzwilliam's father had mentioned several times how fond he was of Mr. Wickham. Georgiana had told her that he was very handsome, and Georgiana was right. He had been Stanley's closest friend.

Wickham grinned brightly when they walked up to him. His teeth were a perfect white, and he firmly shook Darcy's hand. "It is so very, very good to see you after so many years. And looking so very well. Fitzwilliam — I mean Darcy. Mr. Darcy." His face fell, and Mr. Wickham pressed his fist against his lips. "I fear it may be some time before I think of Darcy as being anyone but your brother. You know how close we were… We were traveling in our separate curricles to the same destination, and I saw the crash as his carriage slipped… It was such a sight. I have hardly recovered from the shock."

Fitzwilliam's face stiffened into the mask he adopted to hide his feelings when he was not alone with her. "Yes…to have missed him by only a few weeks after a separation of so long. It was painful."

Elizabeth squeezed Darcy's wrist. Even if she had not liked Fitzwilliam's brother, the hole his death left in the lives of others was a terrible thing.

"You must introduce me to the lovely creature by your side," Mr. Wickham said, and then he flashed his brilliant white-toothed smile at Elizabeth. "I can see you have been very fortunate in your choice of a wife."

Elizabeth was used to being ignored by those who desperately wanted to avoid any acquaintance with a woman such as herself, so she startled when he spoke to her. Darcy seemed a little surprised as well and hesitated before he made the introduction.

Mr. Wickham bowed low when the names were exchanged, and then gallantly took Elizabeth's hand and kissed it. "I am delighted to meet you, Mrs. Darcy. Delighted. Why I had not been five minutes into conversation with my curate before he sang your praises, describing how you have been such a great blessing to the community. I know you've visited most of my poorer parishioners. It is very good that Pemberley at last has a mistress of your quality again. It has been too long."

His manner shined with sincerity, and Elizabeth blushed at his intent gaze that made her feel as if all his attention was upon her. She looked away and said, "I only do what anyone would."

"No. Mrs. Darcy, as a clergyman I see how many people behave, I assure you: you do more. Your humility is proper, but you show real goodness, and no matter what anyone else might say, do not doubt that. I can see that you have true Christian selflessness and generosity."

Elizabeth's face had heated, and she felt a warmth in her chest in being so openly approved of for once. It often seemed like Fitzwilliam was the only one who liked her. These words from this handsome stranger made her almost cry.

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Wickham."

Fitzwilliam took her hand and squeezed it, but she saw in the tilt of his face that while he wished to appear composed he actually was unhappy. He asked Wickham, "Did you enjoy your long stay in Bath?"

"I did not. I was grief stricken when I arrived, and I had a complaint which my physicians told me required me to stay so long for my health. As you can see, I returned as soon as I was restored to my normal good health. But I know that the parish had been left in the very able hands of my curate. As such a close friend of Mr. Painter, surely you agree, Mrs. Darcy."

He smiled at her, and Elizabeth instinctively smiled back. "Oh yes, Mr. Painter has been exceptional. Though you do preach a prettier sermon." Elizabeth was glad that he had such a reasonable explanation for his long absence. She would not have wished to think that such a handsome and kindly man had been negligent of his duties. "With the changes that have occurred, you must find the neighborhood different."

"I shall miss Stanley. We were in each other's company several times a week. I dined more often in Pemberley than at the parsonage. We had such very good fun — cards, conversations… My life shall be empty without him."

"Oh! You must dine with us often. And soon. I know it shall not be the same as when your friend was alive, but I do hope we" — Elizabeth gestured rapidly between herself and Darcy, who smiled stiffly and nodded in agreement — "can become just as dear. Do say you shall dine with us soon."

"As I have no engagements yet in the neighborhood, I am entirely at your disposal, Mrs. Darcy."

"Come tomorrow. Please do. I would offer this afternoon, but I must consult with Mrs. Reynolds to make sure everything is ready." Fitzwilliam's face wore a neutral smile that Elizabeth knew was his public frown. Had she accidentally transgressed some unwritten rule? But as the mistress she thought she could invite a guest to an informal dinner on her own authority. It had never become an issue as none of the neighbors had accepted her acquaintance.

She desperately wanted to at last be a hostess, it was one of the great rituals of wifehood, and she still had not hosted a dinner, or done so many other things, now months after her marriage.

"Fitzwilliam, that is all right? I can invite Mr. Wickham?"

"Of course. Wickham, it would please us greatly if you would dine tomorrow evening."

At Fitzwilliam's reply Elizabeth grinned sunnily when Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy shook hands one last time and agreed on the time that Wickham would arrive the next afternoon.

She was so excited!

At last she would host a dinner, even if there was only one guest. But Mr. Wickham was exactly the guest she would want, so it did not matter. She would ask Mrs. Reynolds to make sure his favorite dishes were served, surely the housekeeper would know, as he had been entertained at Pemberley so often. They would send off to anywhere in a day's journey for special ingredients if needed. Cost need be no object, especially with how cheaply they lived.

Then she would decide what she would wear. Elizabeth suddenly felt a little unhappy that she hadn't bought expensive new clothes in London. But her blue silk with a little of the lace stored about Pemberley would do well enough.

Elizabeth chattered happily to Darcy, describing her plans as he drove their curricle back home. He paid careful attention to her, as he always did — though Fitzwilliam seemed more solemn than usual, but he laughed when Elizabeth asked his opinion on which centerpiece would be best for the table.

Lizzy had been in a flurry all morning. A little part of Darcy wished her first guest was an old woman instead of a handsome fop.

It hurt Darcy to see Elizabeth's pretty enthusiasm. They had settled into such a happy pattern together that Darcy had almost been able to pretend Lizzy was really as happy isolated with him as she claimed to be. For his part, Darcy had never been happier. She always sat with him in their study whenever it was just the two of them, and she had become a full partner in his plans for managing the estate. She was a perfect mistress and friend in every way.

But he now saw again that she was lonely. The occasional letters he shared with Bingley and a few other officers from their imprisonment was as much company with other people as he needed. Darcy had Elizabeth every day, and while he wished Georgiana was with them, he felt no strong desire for the conversation of anyone else. In fact, he rather liked that he could avoid company with no feeling of guilt. Part of him was always uncomfortable with the tight enforced companionship of the prison and then the close quarters of the ship.

Darcy felt entirely free with Lizzy; somehow he felt none of that need to perform for her, he could be who he truly was. There was none of that nagging stress he felt when near other people. And Lizzy saw through his moods when he tried to dissimulate, so there was no point.

But Elizabeth had loved her friendships, and now she had none. Her only regular correspondents were her aunt and uncle, and their correspondence was desultory. She claimed she was irrational, but Lizzy felt as if Mr. Gardiner had betrayed her as well as the rest of her family. She had tried to write to her youngest sisters, but Mr. Collins had replied and demanded she never send messages to his house. At least Mrs. Gardiner could tell Lizzy that they were all well and Lizzy was able to give her messages to tell to Lydia and Kitty.

Lizzy had not become close friends with Mrs. Reynolds or the staff. She only talked with her maid, Sarah, and with the curate. She deserved better.

Lizzy fluttered around the house, eagerly ordering flowers from the hot houses for the tables, tapping her slender finger against the rounded edge of her chin and studying the arrangement of the room with far greater intensity than she had shown with just the two of them.

Darcy knew Elizabeth had stayed in her rooms a half hour beyond normal this morning to consult with Sarah about her dress and hair.

Instead of curling up on the sofa to read, like she normally did, Elizabeth bustled in and out, bothering Mrs. Reynolds and the staff, and then she returned to ask Darcy some question about Wickham's preferences.

"After dinner — will Mr. Wickham prefer cards, or for me to play music — or some sort of charades or games for conversation?"

"Cards, if his character is still the same."

"Are you certain? I wish for this to go well."

"Lizzy. Sit. You shall run yourself ragged. He will be charmed by your table and your conversation. Choose a game of cards and play a song afterwards."

Elizabeth followed Darcy's orders and sat on the couch. She pulled her legs under her and, in an adorable gesture, nibbled at the edge of her finger. "But — this is my first time as the hostess — what if I make some terrible mistake?"

"Impossible. You could never make such a terrible mistake as you imagine — you should truly not worry. It is not Mrs. Reynolds's first time as the housekeeper. She will not let you make any mistakes."

A frown spasmed over Elizabeth's face, but it quickly cleared. Darcy knew the two had not become friends in the way Elizabeth had hoped, but when he offered to speak to Mrs. Reynolds, Elizabeth directly ordered him not to interfere.

Darcy added softly, "Even if she does not yet see your virtues, she will not let you embarrass yourself."

Elizabeth nodded. "How long will he wish to stay in the dining room over the port with you? For that matter, how long do you wish to stay?"

"For my part, the whole separation is a deuced strange fashion. I spent far too many years in Mysore never seeing a lady to understand why gentlemen would wish to avoid the fairer sex. I far prefer your company to Mr. Wickham's."

"Of course you do." Elizabeth laughed, a clear and light sound. "The purpose of the tradition is for the ladies to avoid the men."

"I am quite sure most gentlemen are of the opposite persuasion."

"Yes, because, that is what we wish you to think." Elizabeth grinned impishly.

"Would you then wish for us to separate after dinner when it is just the two of us?"

"Of course not, I like you as much as any lady." Elizabeth stuck her tongue against her cheek and grinned like she often did when amused.

"Perhaps then, if I am one of the ladies, it would be improper for me to sit alone with Mr. Wickham. His charms might sorely try my virtue."

Elizabeth giggled. "Nonsense. I insist that you sit with him at least fifteen minutes. He shall expect something of the sort. Besides — is not Mr. Wickham an old friend? You should be eager to exchange stories, drink to excess, brag about your scars — whatever it is gentlemen do when meeting again after a long separation."

"He was always far more Stanley's friend than mine."

"Wasn't he raised right on the estate?"

"Yes, but…" Darcy rubbed his fingers over the wood of his desk and made a small shrug. "It seems petty — but I had a boyish dislike of Mr. Wickham. He had a charming and easy manner, especially with women, and he was not a studious sort, while I—"

Darcy was interrupted by Elizabeth's ringing laughter.

"Speak no more. I understand. Did he charm away some lady sweet of yours? Not that you have any need to feel poorly on that count, but he is a handsome man."

An uncomfortable flush spread over Darcy's face as he tried to remember back a decade to those school days. It was difficult. His mind had turned to Elizabeth, not Eton, in prison.

Darcy remembered a jumble of moments from that last year in school, the year before he traveled the continent and met Elizabeth when she was still a little girl. Darcy recalled himself frowning, stymied by religious belief and juvenile awkwardness while Wickham sidled next to a pretty serving girl in the tavern they had escaped to and whispered easily into her ear, getting a kiss for his trouble. He'd felt both envious and superior.

Both of them were drunk, but Wickham far more than he, with his face red and a strong smell of rum. Stanley laughing as Wickham taunted Darcy for being boring, stiff, and not bon Ton.

Card games, which Darcy enjoyed while sticking firmly to his limits to not overrun his comparatively meager allowance. Wickham winning pound after pound from Stanley, who laughed and was pleased at the loss.

"Our characters were much the opposite. It was a boyish thing; I hope for us to get on well today. I have heard no evil about him." Darcy rubbed at the numb patch on his face. Even if there were negative reports about him, the way Darcy had isolated himself from the community that would not accept Lizzy meant he would not have heard them. "I think he stayed in Bath for too long."

"He said he was ill and recovering from the shock of your brother's death." Elizabeth's reply had just an edge of sharpness.

Wickham had charmed his wife when he said he believed her to be good. Darcy had seen that. Part of Darcy thought highly of Wickham for not avoiding his wife like everyone else. Though the long relationship he'd held with the Darcy family meant he had far greater reason to remain connected with the family. And his profession as a clergyman gave him a certain social right to interact with sinners.

It was only petty jealousy that made him want to denigrate Mr. Wickham.

"Lizzy. I disliked him as a boy. However, I am pleased that he is coming for dinner, and I know it will be a fine dinner party. Do not let my old pique bother you."

"I won't." She grinned. "I am determined to think the best of Mr. Wickham, whether he deserves it or not. He is handsome, and his sermon was well spoken, if a little trite, and I could never bear to think anything but the best of my first dinner guest.


	23. Chapter 23

Darcy and Elizabeth waited in front of the large flat portico as Wickham raced his curricle up and then pulled it to a sharp stop. He had a quartet of young, fiery horses. They were dappled with long beautiful heads, and they shook their large heads and stamped their feet. Wickham almost immediately let go of the reins and with his cane in hand hopped out.

His groom, who'd clung to the green back seat hanging behind the carriage, smartly hurried around to grab the horses and walk the carriage around towards Darcy's stables. The carriage was brightly painted with strong light woods and velvet upholstery.

The sense of unease Darcy had felt about Wickham sharpened. How did he afford such a fine equipage on the income Kympton provided?

Wickham first greeted Darcy with a firm shake of his hand. "Fitzwilliam, fine to see you." He turned to Elizabeth and said, after an effusive bow and a kiss of her hand, "Lovely, lovely. You look like a charming goddess. My old friend is divinely blessed."

Elizabeth blushed brightly back at Wickham. "I am so delighted to host you."

The three of them made an almost comically small grouping, even though they were in Pemberley's smaller dining room, it was built for a much larger group. Elizabeth smiled, and begged Wickham to tell her if he liked the chairs, or if he needed anything. He replied in his increasingly annoying flirtatious manner.

He held Elizabeth eyes again and again, and she blushed and was entranced by Mr. Wickham. It was the most painful dinner Darcy had ever experienced. He forced himself to hide his disquiet from her glances, but he became more silent and morose as Elizabeth quizzed Wickham about the neighborhood and other families. At least Elizabeth was so absorbed in her guest that she wasn't paying enough attention to notice his jealousy.

The meal was brought out. A full roast, several partridges, a pineapple, a large pudding, white soup. It was enough food for eight or ten people, but at least the servants would enjoy the waste.

Darcy fancied there was something soft about Wickham. The skin on his face was a flawless white that glowed with health. No scars. Nothing had ever broken him. He spoke easily and quickly. He probably would have happily deserted and joined Tippoo Sahib's forces for better conditions when the chance was offered.

Wickham asked Elizabeth, "Do tell me about your charitable calls?"

"Just yesterday after church I visited Mr. Brown and his wife. They are such a sweet couple, it is a terrible pity he lost the leg, and with four young ones. They aren't our tenants, but belong to Hunt's estate, and are just cottagers, but I must do what, and Mrs. Hunt hasn't done nearly enough. I gave him money so that they could buy the supplies to set up in a trade that won't require his legs, but until the oldest son reaches an age to properly work, things will be tight with them. You must know all about this. Mr. Painter has been helpful in telling me who needs more help. You were fortunate when you took him on."

Wickham smiled at Elizabeth's eyes again. "Mrs. Darcy, you are a good, unselfish lady. You are an exemplar of the virtues of English womanhood."

"I thank you for saying that." Elizabeth glanced down at her lap. "Not everyone believes as you do. I truly do not deserve such praise."

"Everyone will see it eventually. Fitz — do tell your wife that she is a perfect creature."

Fitz. He was sure he'd told Wickham to never call him that before he left for India. "Mrs. Darcy knows I cannot possibly think more highly of her than I do. I have no great beliefs in the sensibility of society though."

"I do. In time this foolishness will dissolve. Mrs. Darcy, I will sing your praises to everyone I meet. You are not only good, but you are charming and show every natural delicacy. Anyone who speaks to you will immediately see that what was said was the cruelest defamation."

"Truly? Do you truly think I shall cease to be hated?"

"If the Lord knows when a sparrow falls, will he not care for your happiness? Mrs. Darcy, it will be impossible as you become known for the censure of the community to survive. Impossible."

Elizabeth blushed, and then she sat straighter with an added confidence. Why couldn't he convince Elizabeth all would be well? With him she compulsively pretended she did not care. Besides, Wickham was lying — his mistakes had permanently blighted Elizabeth's reputation. They were all fools in Derbyshire and London and everywhere. Wickham simply spoke nonsense to make Elizabeth smile at him.

When the meal finished, Elizabeth rose from the table and curtsied very prettily. Everything she did was very pretty. "I shall leave you two to your own devices for a while, but please do not take forever." With a bright smile at Wickham she left.

A footman arranged the decanter of port and a pair of glasses on the table. Wickham poured himself a strong serving while Darcy sat stiffly, unable to be polite to this man now that Elizabeth was no longer in the room. Wickham was flirting with his wife. Maybe his anger showed he was oversensitive and jealous, but he did not like it.

Wickham pulled an elaborately jeweled box of snuff from his coat, and after placing some of the powdered tobacco on his thumb sniffed it up through his nose. "Fitz, will you take some? Very good variety. Very good. It is made special for me by an importer in London. Even during the war he managed to get the very best tobacco smuggled from a planation in the Carolinas."

Darcy shook his head.

Wickham shrugged and replaced the box in its pocket. He finished his glass of port and refilled it. He then filled another of the diamond cut tumbler classes and pushed it to Darcy. "Neither India nor marriage has made you more talkative."

Wickham laughed.

Darcy was being abominably rude, but Wickham had flirted with Elizabeth, and she had enjoyed it. That was worse. He could not pretend to be friends.

"It's a damn shame about Stanley — I cried when it happened. It was an awful mess, he'd run the carriage into a building and his head…" Mr. Wickham shivered and gulped down the rest of his second glass of port. He immediately refilled it. "He had been so alive and then… None of us are safe — to think that such a very good driver as he could lose control in that way."

"No. None of us are safe."

"Listen to me talking. As though you do not know that better than me. You must've seen very awful things on the battlefield. I'm terribly glad I never needed to enter the army. What was it like at that battle where you were burned and captured? I heard that most of the British soldiers there died."

Darcy saw that flash of light as the rocket collided with the ammunition wagon. His sword caught in the throat of that brown skinned youth. A man rushing at him with his scimitar raised shot by the soldier behind Darcy.

"It is different on a battlefield."

"Tell me. My life has been quite safe. You've had a great adventure, and it is rude to keep those who had to miss the excitement to tend the souls of your countrymen from being able to vicariously live it."

"It is not a matter I speak of."

Wickham was intoxicated by this point, though not severely. He waved his hand in a broad gesture. "What about your time in prison, what horrible things did the barbarian do to you? Is it true they circumcised all of you to make you into Mohammedans?"

Darcy glared at Wickham who put down his drink and paled. "I apologize. That was out of line. There are stories, but — not a matter to inquire about, no matter how close our past association."

"No, it is not."

"Now, I am sorry I pushed you so, but I dearly wish to hear what the Orient is like."

"And I do not want to remember." At least not when speaking to you.

Wickham shrugged and pulled out his snuff box again. He held it out politely after snapping it open. "Are you certain you do not wish any?"

Darcy made no reply and Wickham again took a pinch. He sneezed and then laughed. "I pulled that in wrong. I generally do a far more creditable job. Your wife is a fine woman. A damned fine woman. Very little like what I expected of her from Stanley's description. Quite fond and eager to please. A fine hostess. You are a very lucky man to have such a girl. Why did you marry her?"

"She is my wife. I will hear nothing from you about her." Darcy leaned over the table with his hands flat and glared at Wickham. The rage had taken him again, and he felt tight in his chest. He wanted to attack Wickham in a way he'd not wanted to hurt anyone since that moment when his uncle insulted Elizabeth.

The memory reminded Darcy of the need for control, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. Darcy took long deep breaths. He was a rational man. Wickham was simply being friendly and charming. He only was jealous because Elizabeth could not love him as he wished her too.

Darcy's pulse pounded in the front of his head while the top ached. It would be difficult to keep Elizabeth from seeing that he'd had a spell.

Darcy opened his eyes, and he flinched away from the candles. Wickham was pale and sitting as far back in his seat as he could. He watched Darcy intently, as though Darcy were a cobra whose head had reared up to strike.

Part of Darcy was glad he frightened Wickham. Hopefully he would now treat Elizabeth with the respect his wife deserved. Darcy also wanted to spend no more time alone with Wickham. Elizabeth enjoyed his presence; he did not. "We have sat here together long enough. Mrs. Darcy hoped that we would rejoin her in the drawing room after some fifteen minutes, and it has already been longer."

Wickham said nothing and followed Darcy to the drawing room.

Wickham was eager for cards, and while he politely listened to Elizabeth play and enthusiastically clapped, he far more enthusiastically cheered when cards were brought out. When Darcy named the stakes, he suggested they play higher, as it was no fun without bets of at least a pound.

Darcy shrugged. Money must be more of far more consequence to Wickham than him and Elizabeth. If he wanted high stakes, far be it from Darcy to protect him from losing the money.

As they played, they continued to talk. Darcy loved to watch how Elizabeth's innate competitiveness and superb head for odds took over, and she aggressively won against both of them. After an hour of play, Wickham laid a winning card down and pulled two markers to his side of the table. That left him only eleven pounds behind for the night. He asked Elizabeth, "What engagements do you have this week?"

Elizabeth said, "I shall tomorrow make several calls. Mr. Peake broke his leg two weeks ago. There was an infection, and while it is mostly gone, Mrs. Peake was run ragged caring for him. I shall bring his wife some of the leftover food from tonight so she doesn't need to cook so much. I gave her several pounds so they could hire a man to finish plowing the fields, but while they insisted it be a loan, I will certainly accept no interest. Mrs. Peake is a sensible woman with a darling daughter and son. But you must know them, as the vicar. I shall give them your greetings when I see them."

"Yes… Mr. Peake. Of course… Delightful family."

Darcy felt privately sure that Mr. Wickham had no idea who the Peakes were.

Wickham asked, "How often do you make such calls?"

"Most days when Fitzwilliam is gone. I prefer to be near the house and read or help him with accounts while he is working." Elizabeth leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "I should not reveal my husband's weaknesses, but while he is decent, my head for numbers is a little superior to his."

Wickham blinked. "I recall he had excellent marks in all subjects at Eton."

"And that makes him decent. When my father died, he was teaching me Newton's calculus and I finished the course of study on my own to honor him. Fitzwilliam is not near so advanced. The mental infirmity of a male, you understand."

Wickham looked at Darcy, "Where are you off to?"

Darcy frowned. Why did Wickham want to know?

Elizabeth answered for him, "Fitzwilliam is riding to Derby with the steward to purchase — what was it that you are purchasing?"

"Drainage pipes. The clay ones."

"Oh yes. There are several areas that Mr. Harding thinks should have drainage added, and Fitzwilliam remembers that the ground can get almost swamp-like in that part of the estate. We should be able to neatly improve yields. Did you ever play in the mud together as boys?" Elizabeth laughed cheerily. "Fitzwilliam has told me about his adventures with the ponds and rain, and how it annoyed Mrs. Reynolds and his mother, but did you ever make a mess together? I am sure you were not a well behaved boy, Mr. Wickham."

"Fitzwilliam is telling you stories about jumping in the mud? I always thought your husband was quite dull. He was too worried what Lady Anne would think. And then he went to India and got himself blown up." Wickham grinned at Darcy. "I expected less excitement from you."

Elizabeth immediately frowned at Wickham. "'Tis not a casual subject…but did you two never play together in the mud?"

Darcy said, "Wickham, do you remember that time when Richard and the Viscount were here, and we pelted each other with mud. Mrs. Reynolds almost shrieked at us when we tracked mud onto the carpets."

"You did not track the mud on the carpets, only the marble floor of the entryway. And that was the last time you ever made a mess of yourself, after the talking Lady Anne gave you."

"It was not."

"Are you competing to see who was a more disobedient child?"

Darcy replied to Elizabeth. "There is no competition. Wickham was more disobedient — I simply wish you to know that I was not always well behaved."

Elizabeth laughed merrily. "And what is the purpose of proving this?"

"Simply that you know I am not always well behaved."

"Are you certain?" Wickham flashed his teeth at Elizabeth. "Whatever nefarious habits your husband may claim, I have seen none. He would have been more suited for the church, and I for the Army — but, to my great fortune, I am the one who writes the sermons."

Elizabeth's giggle at Wickham's attempt to amuse her annoyed Darcy again. However, he did not want Elizabeth to see his jealous mood, so he focused strongly on the cards as Wickham and Elizabeth bantered.

Eventually both Wickham and Elizabeth fell silent as the card game grew more tense. All three of them were focused on winning, but his wonderful wife did the best. Darcy suspected Wickham desperately wanted the money; Darcy tried as hard as he could, because he wanted Wickham to lose. Elizabeth always wanted to win at every game.

It was likely to be the last round of the evening: Darcy had thrown in his cards while Wickham had bet high.

Elizabeth bit her lip and grimaced with concentration as she studied her cards. It was an adorable habit she had when she concentrated. At last she laid her cards on the table and said to Wickham, "I match you."

He groaned and threw away his hand in disgust.

"You were bluffing!" Elizabeth's face lit with glee and she pumped a small fist in the air. "Haha! I win."

With that round Wickham now owed Lizzy more than twenty-five pounds. Something in Wickham's manner suggested he was unhappy due to the outcome of the evening. Darcy remembered that Stanley would, not precisely let Wickham win, but not try hard to beat him. Half of Wickham's spending money had been won off of Stanley.

Perhaps Stanley never stopped letting Wickham win, and that was how Wickham afforded such fine horses and carriage?

If so, he was going to be disappointed. Darcy smiled internally, his mood lifting.

Elizabeth blushed and hid her face behind her cards. "I apologize, Mr. Wickham. I should not gloat. I hope the losses are not a matter for concern. You did play quite well."

"Only not so well as you. Do not worry for me; I am very able to absorb the loss of a few pounds on occasion."

Elizabeth yawned, and Wickham said, "It has become quite late. But I have enjoyed this evening with you enormously, Mrs. Darcy. Until next time."

"Please, do promise to come again this week, perhaps Friday or Saturday."

Wickham glanced at Darcy and smirked. "I certainly shall. Thank you for your kind invitation."

They all walked out together and Darcy grabbed Elizabeth's arm while they stood and watched Wickham drive off. The brightly liveried groom clung to the back of the curricle and two lanterns set on either side of the carriage swung merrily with the bouncing of the springs. It was a pleasant night, with a cool breeze that brushed over his face and brought the scent of grass. Darcy pulled Elizabeth's arm tight against his body, and his head throbbed after the tension he'd been under to appear calm for the past hours.

Once the dancing light had disappeared completely, Darcy turned to Elizabeth and impelled by a self-lacerating impulse said, "You like Wickham."

"He is easy to like. I've never seen such an easiness of manners, such charm, and the way he carries himself as he walks. Very much the gentleman." Elizabeth laughed at Darcy's frown. "Now do not be jealous! Your mind and company is very much the superior. Do not think that simply because I find such a gentleman that I will demote you from your position as my very dearest friend. You always shall have the highest place in my affections."

Elizabeth's face was dim in the moonlight, and she smiled brightly.

He was more affected by her promise of affection that he should have been.

Darcy swallowed and meant to reply lightly. Elizabeth allowed nothing of it. She placed her hand on his forearm and, closely peering at his face, asked with a queer tone, "You are not displeased or jealous?"

"No. No, I am not jealous."

"You are displeased," Elizabeth said firmly. "You were tense when you and Wickham returned from the dining room… I will not speak to Wickham more than is needed for church and charity business."

"No," Darcy said sharply. No matter how unhappy watching Elizabeth smile at Wickham's unscarred face made him, he would not interfere with Elizabeth's enjoyment. "We are not friends — that is true — but I only wish…I wish you to enjoy the company of anyone you desire. Lizzy, I know how much — we do not speak of it — but the lack of friends and company hurts you. If Mr. Wickham can relieve your loneliness, I shall praise him for it."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "Are you certain? Mr. Wickham is a handsome man… Tonight I paid him more attention than you. Many husbands might be…jealous."

"Lizzy, I only want you to be happy."

She sighed and looked at the ground. Elizabeth spoke in a dull voice, "Of course." Elizabeth quickly but tightly embraced Darcy and kissed his cheek. "You are the best of men. I know I do not deserve you."

They went back inside and parted for bed. Darcy lie awake staring at his roof.

She was asleep, a simple door separated them. He imagined her breathing softly, curled up on her side, looking like she did when she fell asleep on the couch, the soft curls floating about her cheeks. Red lips and her tanned and freckled skin. The linen nightshift he'd seen glimpses of, falling over her hips, a soft blanket over her, creating a perfect arousing curve.

But he wouldn't hurt her or impose himself on her for the world


	24. Chapter 24

Elizabeth wanted to cry when she thought about how Fitzwilliam saw her as nothing but a sister, not an object of desire. He cared for her, but beyond friendship he mostly felt unhappy about their circumstances.

Even though he was scarred, she would be desperately happy to give herself to him if he wanted her. Someday he would need to take her, so that he might have an heir, but Elizabeth felt sick when she imagined Darcy touching her as an unwanted duty. She wanted to be wanted, needed, loved.

If only she hadn't been so selfish, her dearest friend could have married someone he might love the way she loved him.

Elizabeth shook her head and waited while Sarah fastened the tiny buttons along the back of her dress. She chose to wear her prettiest walking dress this morning, a yellow sprigged muslin with a ribbon around her waist that made a neat picture, just in case she encountered him while calling on Mrs. Peake.

Last night, Mr. Wickham looked at her and flattered her like a man who admired a woman. If only Fitzwilliam could come to admire her…except he would not behave that way if he loved her. He would be so much more serious, and so much sweeter, and he would mean everything he said completely. She was sure he was not in love with any other woman, so why didn't he see her that way?

Maybe he was a little jealous of Wickham, but did not want to admit it. Elizabeth decided to hope it was true. So long as she did not let herself go very far, there was no harm in flirting with Wickham, and maybe seeing how another man could like her would make Fitzwilliam see her as desirable. It was a sort of low art she usually disliked, but she was becoming desperate. Besides, bantering with Wickham would be fun, and Darcy specifically had said he did not mind.

Elizabeth curled her fist tightly to keep from crying again.

She could still rouse the admiration of a decent, likable man — someone completely unlike Sir Clement. The way Mr. Wickham looked at her yesterday proved that. It made Elizabeth feel alive and confident once again. She could win Fitzwilliam's heart yet.

Elizabeth quickly tied the laces of her walking boots and hurried down to the stables. She had already had an early breakfast with Darcy, before they took a morning walk, but she did hope to properly see him off before he rode to Derby.

The grey horse was saddled, and Darcy led it out of the barn when Elizabeth walked up. She quickly embraced him and gave Darcy a kiss on the cheek. "Do be careful on your ride into Derby."

Darcy's returning smile was a thin and pained.

Elizabeth critically examined his face, she saw the tense skin around his eyes. Her stomach spasmed anxiously. "Oh, you had another spell. Do not hide it. You always look pale like that following. And you did not sleep well."

She immediately grabbed Darcy's arm and pulled him to sit on a bale of hay so she could massage the muscles in the back of his head. There was a sensuous happiness when she worked her hands through Darcy's thick, soft hair and into his warm skin. "I hate it when you hide such things from me."

"I am fine."

"Do not say that when it is not true. I will worry more if you hide from me. Are you certain you must go to Derby?"

"My headache will be relieved by the ride. Besides I wish to think."

Elizabeth snorted disgustedly. "Come to me when you need help. Don't hide your headaches and spells."

Darcy groaned in pleasure when she got at that knot in his neck and he slouched a little in relaxation. Elizabeth smiled happily at the unpainted wood of the barn wall.

When Elizabeth let go, Darcy stood with a dear smile. "I feel far better. I always depend on you."

Elizabeth embraced him and kissed Darcy's cheek again.

He walked the horse outside and with an easy jump vaulted himself into the saddle and rode off. Elizabeth watched him, how his body swayed with the horse's motion. He kept such a fine erect seat.

When Elizabeth and Sarah arrived at the Peakes' with their full baskets of food, they talked about how Mr. Peake was getting along. Elizabeth said, "You must be pleased to see Mr. Wickham returned to the parish."

Mrs. Peake frowned, and then shrugged, "He is just the vicar. Prettier than Mr. Painter, but nothing else to him."

"Really?" She felt uncomfortable at the thought there was something wrong with her new friend. "Does he never make calls?"

Mr. Peake said loudly from where he had his foot wrapped in its cast, "He's just another gent, don't have anything worse to say about him than he insists on having the tithes paid on time. But that's his right. I've never spoken to him except at harvest time."

"Oh."

"Not my place. Shouldn't have said anything. I dare say he is fine in one of your drawing rooms, Mrs. Darcy."

She smiled unevenly at the farmer. "Yes, he is."

As she walked away from the house, Elizabeth pushed away her discomfort. Maybe he wasn't focused on charitable affairs and helping his parish, but that didn't make Wickham a bad man. It just meant he didn't have every virtue. She was determined to like him very well; after all he was so kind to her, when nobody else was.

Was it possible that Fitzwilliam was jealous and just wished to hide it? Something about Wickham's presence had set him off, and he'd been tense much of the previous evening, especially after they'd returned from the separation. He'd tried to hide it, but after seeing him this morning, Elizabeth knew he'd had a spell.

What if they'd argued about her? Elizabeth felt a delighted thrill go through her chest and stomach as she imagined Fitzwilliam with his hard blue eyes warning Mr. Wickham to not flirt with her, and then forcing himself to act like a calm gentleman while seething at seeing someone else do just that.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Wickham himself. Sarah and Elizabeth were just a little distance away from the Peakes. They walked a little faster back towards the house, as they no longer carried baskets filled with food and a few toys Elizabeth had snuck in for the children.

Mr. Wickham smiled upon seeing her and hurried close, doffing his jaunty hat. "Mrs. Darcy, I hoped to see you when I decided to take you for an example and call upon my poorer parishioners today."

"Mr. Wickham. It is very nice to see you. It is fine weather today, is it not? And you look quite well." Elizabeth frowned. "I've completed my calls today and we" — she gestured at her maid — "were walking back to Pemberley. But if you were out to call on the Peakes, I can walk with you. They have a lovely house."

"No, no. I would not interrupt your walk home. I imagine you have received more exercise today than me, and it is such a fine day today. A walk afterwards would do me good. Do let me accompany you home."

He held his arm out, and Elizabeth took the finely woven sleeve of his wool coat. Mr. Wickham smiled at Elizabeth and they chatted about the weather, the character of the land, his parish, and other matters. Elizabeth realized that though he did not wish to admit it, he did not know much about any of the families she had been visiting. That discomfort about him came back.

When they passed the parsonage, Mr. Wickham said, "Do come in and take tea with me."

Elizabeth blushed and shook her head. She knew it would not be proper to call on an unmarried gentleman in that way. "I must return home."

"Must you?"

"Well…"

"Mrs. Darcy, it would delight me if I could return the favor of your excellent dinner last night. It will just be a delay of a half hour." He spoke lightly.

"Are you sure — I do not know if…well—"

"I understand. Do not worry, you are now married, and I am both a clergyman and a close friend of your family. There is nothing improper. Do come around, we shall sit in the garden."

Wickham took Elizabeth's arm and pulled her around.

"Are you certain?" Elizabeth shrugged and let Wickham pull her along, followed at a discreet distance by Sarah. She knew Darcy did not consider Wickham a friend, but he still was a friend of the family and he was a clergyman. And she was married. She did not want to offend her one friend besides Darcy in the community with nonsensical prudishness.

Wickham's garden had a beautiful set of well-tended rose bushes that were in a bloom, and he had a prettily painted table surrounded with wrought iron chairs. He almost pushed Elizabeth into her seat. "Do not worry. I have been about in the world much more than you. Your husband is not so jealous as to mind our friendship."

"He is not." Darcy had quite specifically said he was not jealous and wanted her to talk with Wickham as much as she wished. Besides Sarah was with her, so there could be nothing inappropriate about the situation. The community as a whole already thought the very worst of her.

Wickham walked to the door and called for a servant, who was a young and rather pretty maid. With a smiling curtsy she went off to boil the water and collect the tea things.

When Wickham finished his orders, he sat and said, "It is very kind of you to show so much interest in those beneath your station."

"I do not feel so high — I know my station by birth and marriage is far above theirs and my education is different. But…we are all creatures of God. I am not — by birth I am not near so rich as I am as a Darcy. I like to talk with people."

Mr. Wickham held her eyes and leaned forward, covering her hand with his. "You do not see yourself clearly. You are extraordinary."

Elizabeth blushed. If he knew how she had used Darcy to escape, he wouldn't praise her so highly. "I am not. You know how I am treated. In truth I visit the tenants so often because I am lonely."

"I promise to always be your friend."

"I wish—"

There was the sound of the maid fiddling with the door as she opened it to the garden, and Mr. Wickham let go of her hand and sat further back.

Wickham had a plain masculine set of tea things, with colored lines and patterns instead of the flowers and filigree that women often preferred. Elizabeth turned the cups upright on the saucers, instinctually taking the place of a hostess pouring the tea for a male guest. She poured first Mr. Wickham's cup and then her own.

The tea was a slight touch too weak, and the biscuits were dry. Elizabeth smiled to herself. While he kept his clothes and equipage to a high standard, the more domestic enchantments of good food were not an obsession of Mr. Wickham's.

No wonder he was so eager to dine at the big house.

Wickham understood her smile and said, "I fear my table is not so well furnished as yours."

Elizabeth laughed. "I beg you not to say things to me which will require a false denial in politeness."

"That was gauche of me. Can you forgive me, my lady?"

"Perhaps. I shall think on it. Oh, and, of course, I noticed no deficiency in your tea."

Wickham smirked handsomely. "How can anything be deficient when you are present?"

Elizabeth blushed. "Now do remember, I am a married woman. What would my husband think if he heard you praising me so?"

Rather than responding with another gallantry, Wickham's brows knitted together, and he pulled away a little. After a moment he said with a smile that appeared perfect, but which Elizabeth still thought was forced, "Alas, goddess, us poor mortals are forced to only worship from afar, for you have been claimed."

Almost absently Elizabeth replied, "Mr. Darcy is not a jealous sort, my votaries need not retreat such a very great distance." She remembered how Darcy had one of his headaches this morning. She began to be sure it came from something about Wickham's presence. At the thought that Fitzwilliam might be really be unhappy with Mr. Wickham she instinctively pulled herself further away from him.

"Something bothers you."

"You and my husband last night, after dinner. Might I ask what topic you spoke on?"

Wickham frowned and rubbed at his finely shaven chin. "Well…we spoke of Stanley, that is Fitzwilliam's brother. How he died. And a little about India. It is not a topic either of us are comfortable with."

Wickham looked preoccupied, and instead of resuming the manner of intimacy he'd held before, he almost leaned back in his chair.

Oh. Elizabeth now felt she understood Fitzwilliam's unhappiness, and maybe even why he'd had a spell. She remembered how Mama had felt angry at Papa for dying and leaving them alone. Elizabeth herself had even felt that once. It was irrational, but grief need not be rational.

"Why do you ask? Did he say anything about me to you?"

"Of course." Elizabeth smiled. "We are married and speak on most topics — I have learned you two were not friends as boys."

"We were not."

"I do hope — it is all my fault, but he does not speak to his old acquaintances often. Colonel Fitzwilliam is the only member of his family he still corresponds with, and Georgiana is lost to us. Most of his friends are still in uniform or dead. So long as the neighborhood refuses to acknowledge me, he refuses to acknowledge it. Mr. Darcy only has me, and while he does not miss company much…it would do him good to have a dear male friend."

"I shall try, but Fitz has always been very much the cipher to me."

Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed, "He would be happier if not for me."

"That is certainly not true. Mr. Darcy is a very lucky man, no matter what society says; if he does not adore you as you deserve…but I should not speak so passionately. I am sure he shows you every mark of affection you deserve."

Elizabeth felt like crying. Mr. Wickham would think her a silly woman. Elizabeth could not stop thinking of how Darcy had never wanted her or approached her. Any time she wanted to be touched or held by him, she had to initiate the embrace. He would freely hold her hand, but nothing else. He didn't love her; he didn't want her.

Wickham took Elizabeth's hand again and said in a low solemn voice, "Mrs. Darcy, you can tell me."

His eyes bored into her, and in an instant Elizabeth decided she would trust Mr. Wickham. He was a clergyman, and the collar made it easy to trust him with a confidence. Besides, Mr. Wickham believed the best of her, when almost no one else did. "He doesn't want me. He's never, never — we haven't. He never came to me. He knows it was a mistake to marry me. I've never wanted money; I swear I am not a fortune hunter. He only married me so I would be safe from Sir Clement. I knew it was wrong to marry him when he couldn't possibly love me, but I thought I could make him happy and be a good wife. Everything went so wrong."

Elizabeth sobbed, and Mr. Wickham kept her hand, a comforting friendly presence.

At last Elizabeth pulled her hand from Wickham's and took the handkerchief he handed her to blow her nose. "I must appear to be a silly child."

"No, I assure you, you are charming, and everything that is womanly." Then Mr. Wickham exclaimed in a choked voice, "Fitz has never come to you."

Elizabeth went bright red. "I should not have said anything. Oh, this is so inappropriate and—"

"Do not worry about that; as a clergyman, I have heard far stranger confessions. If speaking relieves your heart, you should feel able to tell me anything — my old friend has used you most ill."

"No — he is perfectly good. Everything is my fault. I have been the selfish one. So you see, I truly am not so good as you have said."

"You are. You are perfectly good."

Elizabeth flushed and looked down. Wickham's silk handkerchief was sodden, so she returned it to him and pulled her own cotton one from her pocket and finished wiping off her face and then blew her nose once more. She smiled at Wickham, feeling warmer and less anxious than this morning.

Elizabeth stood, followed by Wickham. She curtsied and said, "I am glad you have returned to Derbyshire. I know we shall be dear friends."

Wickham made a sweeping bow. "My lady, we already are.


	25. Chapter 25

A month later, George Wickham whistled a pretty dancing tune as he walked down a country lane one fine summer afternoon. His mind was fixed on the important question which had continuously recurred since he had met Fitz's wife.

To seduce or not to seduce. That was the question. Whether t'was nobler in the mind to suffer his desire for delectable Elizabeth Darcy. Or should he take sword to woman, and by thrusting her body, risk the sword of her jealous husband?

Wickham smiled at his own fancy. How did the rest of Hamlet's speech go? Oh never mind. He finished the air he had been whistling and began to hum the tune to a bawdy drinking song, about a woman who happily begged man after man for his favors. The trees had fully grown out in heavy green for the summer, and a long line of oaks shaded the road. He hoped to meet Mrs. Darcy after one of her absurd, obsessive visits to attend on the sickly, beastly plebs.

Elizabeth was sparkling, naive and easily charmed. Her bright eyes went right to his loins, and he wanted to corrupt her innocence. He thought she was nearly in love with him already. Certainly what she'd really meant with that confession was that she was desperate for a man's touch. And he was the best looking man about, even if Fitz was taller.

Wickham became hard just thinking about her sweet smile and those deep brown eyes. Her curves. When he rode to the brothel he frequented several towns distant, he always asked for a brown haired girl and called her Elizabeth during the act. Excellent sport, but the real girl would be even better.

However, it was obvious Fitz was in love with her. The Mohammedans must have cut Fitz's whole manhood off. That was the only possible reason he was not tupping that delicious object every night.

Elizabeth would be a very good tumble. He imagined his lips against her neck and that pretty bosom unclothed and bouncing. She had such a passionate nature and had never been satisfied by her glowering husband.

Fitz glowered better than Wickham would have ever imagined when he was Stanley's annoying smaller brother.

At Bath Wickham had talked with a man present at the trial. Twenty times. Sir Clement had already been dead, but Darcy stabbed the man's body twenty times before the doctor and Richard pulled him off.

Wickham had laughed at the time. He never could have imagined that a passionless dullard like Fitz would kill a baronet in a duel over a woman. And with swords no less.

Prison must have changed him.

It wasn't funny anymore.

Wickham's dreams erotique about Elizabeth mixed with those where he was stabbed by Fitz during a duel. A thin sword punching many, many little holes in his body. The vivid imagined sensation had so far kept his attraction to Mrs. Darcy, ah, soft.

Asking "to seduce, or not to seduce" perhaps also asked "to be, or not to be".

Wickham saw Elizabeth standing inside the kitchen garden of one of the model brick cottages in the village, talking to a farmer's wife. The wind made her neat curves clad in a blowsy dress stand out. She was delectable. Wickham licked his lips and slowed his pace to enjoy the view of her figure.

He hoped that she would be done speaking to the lesser creature by the time he reached them.

That clergymen were supposed to associate and look with compassion upon the poor was why he wished the law was as little work as the clergy. Only judges spent much time with the ruffians, and Wickham thought he might like being a judge very well indeed. He would sit with one of those big powdered wigs on his head, and listen solemnly before, with a benignant smile, encouraging the jury to show mercy.

Damn Fitz.

He had a beautiful wife he didn't use, and he never gambled for real stakes.

Wickham had no idea how he could find the funds to pay back Mr. Corbin, now that he couldn't win money off Stanley. Why did the damn fool need to kill himself with his carriage? Couldn't he have thought about someone besides himself?

The farmer's wife thanked Elizabeth profusely as Wickham ambled up to the pair. Her hands were scabbed and ugly. So was her face. If he wasn't able to force his curate to deal with the dirty people, Wickham would do away with himself.

Wickham smiled and said charming things to Mrs. Brown when Elizabeth and the woman turned to him. He could not bring himself to dirty his gloves by directly touching Mrs. Brown. They were worth more than she was.

Afterwards he took Elizabeth's arm to walk with her. She headed back to Pemberley and they chatted amiably. Wickham's mind had been on money since the most recent message demanding an installment arrived from Mr. Corbin. So he asked, with a little pique, "Can you easily afford to give so much to charity cases? While your beauty shines forth no matter what you wear, I know that dress was made in Lambton, not London."

Elizabeth turned to him and pouted prettily. By Jove, he wanted to kiss that mouth. He lost himself watching how her face moved, and when Elizabeth ceased speaking, Wickham said, "Forgive me, I did not hear you."

She laughed and pushed him on the arm. More flirtatious behavior. She was begging him to take her. "I said, I spend almost none of my pin money."

"Oh. Why not?"

Elizabeth slammed one hand against the other. "I won't be that money obsessed woman they think I am. I won't."

"No one could think you are."

She rolled her eyes.

Yes. So Mrs. Darcy was generally believed to be a fortune hunter. He'd expected her to be one and said the opposite when he met her because rogues generally liked to believe they were fooling the public. "You still should not give away all of your pin money to charity. You might enjoy better dresses."

"I do not care, and neither does Fitzwilliam. Besides I certainly am not giving all the money away, I could not in such a constrained community."

"But you—"

"Fitzwilliam assigned me an absurd settlement and income at my marriage. A bank account with three thousand was filled up for expenses associated with the beginning of my marriage, and I receive six hundred a quarter more. I've spent maybe a hundred fifty on myself and given away another hundred fifty. I only help when there is genuine need among the tenants, and that is not so common as to absorb the money. I believe there is now more than four thousand pounds in my accounts."

"You have access to four thousand?" Wickham's eyes popped wide. She could pay off that foolish loan he'd received from that money lender. Mr. Corbin was the sort of man who occasionally had ruffians beat — or even murder — late payers pour encourager les autres.

Wickham really didn't want to be beaten or murdered.

"It is ridiculous. I do not understand how a creature could spend so much money. But Pemberley is far richer than either I or Darcy spend. I'd return the money to the general accounts, but it would not be spent there either. We probably shall add to the landholdings in another year or so."

"Four thousand pounds."

"Have you turned hard of hearing?" Elizabeth laughed again. "Oh, I am arrived. I must hurry in, as I am to go riding with Fitzwilliam this afternoon and want to consult with Mrs. Reynolds about a servant matter first. Have you seen the pretty mare he bought for me? I am not afraid of it at all. Au revoir."

Elizabeth hurried off, her hips swinging unconsciously to and fro, and she entered the house by the front door. Wickham turned away, and then when he found a bench in the garden, he slumped down.

He needed to get the money from her.

Wickham had not realized how much he'd depended on Stanley's generosity until his friend was gone. He spent almost twice what the parsonage brought in, and now he had no sense what to do. Despite owing Mr. Corbin so much for his losses in Bath when he drank himself into a stupor after Stanley died, he'd only taken on extra debts since his return to Pemberley.

He'd found a few economies and released one of his servants and he'd stopped drinking good alcohol when he dined in. His cook had been released. But those were home matters. The big cost was his carriage and the grooms and horses. Following that was his clothes.

He would not dress like…like Fitz. He also would not drive around some slow gig with one horse like some dowdy country parson.

There was no help for it.

Elizabeth was so sweet and kind that he could easily get her to give him this money she found so burdensome. Strange girl. But if Darcy discovered that she gave him money, he would certainly assume Wickham had been conducting an affaire with Mrs. Darcy. He should seduce her and enjoy it.

Oh, by God it would feel so good.

She was going to ride out with Darcy today, but next time he saw her on a walk alone, he'd find a way. Besides with how much she smiled at him, she'd probably been disappointed that he hadn't yet seduced her. After all she certainly didn't hold a tendre for Darcy. She'd admitted she just married him to escape that baronet Fitz killed.

She was so wild with her endless walks. It would be easy to find opportunities to take her without raising additional suspicion.

It was actually a good thing Stanley died. He could probably get even more money out of Elizabeth than he had out of Stanley, and, much as he loved cards, he loved the lasses more.

He just needed to be ready to flee if Darcy found out. He was not going to duel that madman


	26. Chapter 26

Two days later, Darcy returned a little past noon from a matter of business that took him fifteen miles away from the estate in the morning. The matter had not required the master's attention, and probably he'd gotten a worse price than his steward would have on the breeding bulls. Now that he'd become more used to the estate and settled matters which Stanley had not handled the way he would — his brother had been a conscientious landlord, but they thought differently — there was not much for him to do.

He remembered two days ago seeing Lizzy from his office window walking up to the estate laughing with Mr. Wickham. Darcy did not like the man. But it was not his place to complain to Lizzy about her one friend. That afternoon during their ride she'd laughingly said that Mr. Wickham thought she should buy a great deal of dresses from London, but she saw no need to.

Darcy entered the stable and waved off the groom who came to take care of his horse. He'd seen Elizabeth in the distance walking towards one of the villages around the estate when he'd ridden up to the stables. It was likely she would not return from her calls for another hour or two.

After unbuckling and hanging up the saddle, Darcy fed his stallion an apple and took a brush to groom his mane a little. It was a mindless but comforting task. Rama was a large, beautiful, black animal, with a white spot on the forehead. The musty smell of straw and manure reminded Darcy of his childhood. It was a glorious feeling to go wherever he wished again.

The stable had been remodeled during Stanley's time, and the stall where Lizzy had embraced him while he cried after his father's death was no longer there. She had been such a small thing then, but already as kind and caring and clever as she would grow up to be.

Perhaps he should take Lizzy to the continent. She would like visiting again the places they'd seen on the trip where they'd met as children. But did he want to take such a trip to please her or to separate her from Wickham? Darcy did not think she could be falling in love with Wickham, but he still felt jealous of the man's way of laughing and joking with Lizzy.

Would such a trip please her?

Darcy turned at the footsteps of a man entering the barn. Tomlinson came next to him, looking well in the clothes he could afford on the large salary Darcy paid him. He'd been made the second to Darcy's man of business, and his brilliance at keeping the regiment supplied within its funds showed also in his work for Darcy. He'd returned a few days ago after spending a month negotiating purchases for the estate in London.

Tomlinson's head rested cocked far forward due to his old injury. "Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a matter I — a delicate matter — I must speak on."

"Yes, of course. What is the matter?"

"Well…you see. That is."

Darcy finished brushing down Rama's long black neck and after patting the stallion he turned to his man and quirked an eyebrow.

"Sir, have you seen how that Mr. Wickham sidles up to your lady? I've seen it myself, and the servants are full of talk about how often they meet on Mrs. Darcy's walks. He is far too familiar with her. You must do something."

Darcy froze and coldly said, "It is not your concern."

"I heard from the staff that it is leading to rumors. Quite like Mr. Wickham hopes to seduce your wife, and she has not discouraged him. You must do something to protect your woman."

"You too!" A sudden fit took Darcy, and he slammed his hand against the stable's wooden wall. "Damn you. I thought I could at least trust you to see her goodness."

"You'll not scare me with that show. Mrs. Darcy is a fine lady, but—"

"I completely trust Elizabeth's virtue. If it was any man but you who had spoken about her so, I would dismiss them immediately."

"Then show a concern for her reputation. It is not right for a young wife to show that much attention to another man. Everyone can see that."

The air was pungent with the smell of hay and horses. Tomlinson's head jutted even further forward than normal.

"I just want her to be happy — she likes Wickham and enjoys his company. I will not be the jealous husband who interferes with his wife's innocent pleasures."

"They are not innocent and you know that. He wishes to seduce her. You know that Wickham is a fool, she would not care anything for him if you paid her attention."

"I pay Elizabeth attention."

"Sir, I know enough about women to see that she will be seduced if you don't make her see how much you care about her. It isn't a matter of virtue; a woman wants to be loved. You never let her see. Why do you let a worthless fellow like that spend so much time with the woman you adore?"

"I won't see her unhappy."

"Have you told her? Have you ever said how you love her? Did you tell her how much you always cared for her?"

"Mr. Tomlinson." Darcy breathed in and out slowly. "I will tolerate more from you than from any other employee. But there is a limit. The matter of how I treat my wife — it is not your place."

Darcy inclined his head stiffly and walked towards the stable's exit.

"Listen!" Tomlinson grabbed Darcy's arm, dragged him to sit on a bale of straw with his bulky muscles. "I do not talk to you as your servant — but as a man whose life you saved. It leaves a debt — that debt makes it my place. I'll not let you go until you listen."

No member of the lower orders had ever laid his hands on Darcy in that way. But their shared experience, walking together through the valley of death, did give him the right. "You would have lived in any case — and what debt there was was repaid by how you nursed me."

"I'd have died — and such owing cannot be repaid. If my care saved you, then that debt you owe me demands you listen just as my debt to you demands I speak."

Darcy slumped against the wall of the barn. "Look at me!" He grabbed and shook the scarred tissue of his cheek. "How could she love me next to such a handsome untouched face? And I know, Elizabeth is not so shallow — but I have made such a mess of matters. She is alone because I could not control my temper. I coerced her into marrying me because I knew she wouldn't refuse in such a situation."

"So? You are a hundred times the man that Wickham is. Your Lizzy will love you, if only you let her. But she can't if you refuse to let her see that you want her. I know this much about the lasses, they like it when they are wanted."

"If I told her about how much I want and love her, she would submit to me, or say she loved me just because it is her duty."

Tomlinson tilted his head. "She did marry you. It is her duty."

"I could not stand it if…if she let me embrace her, while secretly hating my touch. She only married me to escape Sir Clement."

"She did not write those dozens of letters that you kept by your heart on the journey home to escape Sir Clement."

"She wrote the letters to an unscarred man, not the ugly monster I became."

"Monster? Not that it is a matter for bragging, but" — Tomlinson pulled the hair he had grown out long in the back to display the ugly puckered scar along his neck — "I admit yours is on your face, and ruins your pretty looks, but many of us were hurt. We are as good men as ever."

"I never had the spells of rage before. I think it was the fever."

"That is what bothers you?"

"I once — the day they took Georgiana from us. I was angry at my uncle. I ranted madly and compulsively grabbed for the sword which I was not wearing. If I had been wearing it… Elizabeth grabbed me from behind, and I pushed her away. She was thrown to the ground and looked up at me blinking in surprise. Her arm was sprained. I have nightmares where I hurt her by accident…"

"Ah." Tomlinson sat on a green and yellow bale of hay. "My father beat my mum and all of us children. He didn't have rages, he just liked to hit weaker creatures… You aren't dangerous for all your spells. They are far less common than on the voyage home in any case. That was an accident. You would never attack her if you can see it is her."

"I'm not who I was once."

"So? Everyone changes. Tell her what is in your heart, she already adores you — despite how you have pretended not to be married to her, she almost worships you."

So much could go wrong if he talked to her, she would reject him. Darcy rubbed his hand over his cheek.

Tomlinson said, "That night you nearly died, you raved. Many times you said 'Lizzy, Lizzy.' You will speak to her. My captain is no coward."

After Tomlinson left Darcy in the stables, he sat and thought. He tried to imagine what Elizabeth had felt since their marriage.

With a flash of shame, he realized he had been an idiot and, worse, a coward. Women want to know they are wanted. He remembered the night they first had Wickham to dine. Elizabeth asked that night, "Are you jealous?"

Why had he lied to her?

He'd never thought how his refusal to show her any of his amorous feelings must have appeared to Elizabeth. They were married. She expected him to approach her.

Even if she did not desire him as a man, it must hurt to see day after day that he did not want her as a woman. She could interpret it no other way.

He had never told her that he was glad she was his wife. He had never explained that…

Elizabeth hugged him and took his hand and kissed his cheeks so often. He always told himself that such things were marks of sisterly affection, and he'd rarely reciprocated out of fear she would see his own passion for her if he held her tightly as he wished to.

But maybe she hoped he would respond?

It felt correct. Elizabeth would be even more frightened than he to damage their peace.

He could still make things right.

With a burst of cheerfulness, Darcy jauntily walked into the house. He called for Mrs. Reynolds, and when she arrived asked, "There is no assembly tonight in town, correct?"

The older woman blinked. "No, sir."

"Excellent. Send out to see if the musicians are available to hire. I'd like a string quartet, but if someone else has hired the band, can you at least try to hire a good violinist for tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. We have been too somber, and Mrs. Darcy, though she'd never say anything to me, would like dancing and a ball. None of those fools about the neighborhood would come, but it will be the better for just being the two of us. I want you to clear the salon as though we were to have a ball, set up that platform for the band. Instead of the full dining table, just have a small round table. Intimate. Just a few candles. But do have some punch mixed up and on a table in the back, and order out some ice for sherbets."

"Yes, sir."

"Do make sure we have some of that French soup, the recipe my father brought back from our trip. Do you have the ingredients? It was what we ate the day we met, as I recall. Back when Father was alive."

Mrs. Reynolds smiled a little. "I will see what Cook can manage. He'll manage something which tastes almost the same if there are a few missing ingredients."

"Has Mrs. Darcy looked at any of the stored jewelry? I don't recall her wearing anything but the cross and bracelet she brought from Longbourn."

"I…I am certain she has not." Mrs. Reynolds brushed at her hair and turned away as though uncomfortable.

"Of course not." Darcy frowned. The last thing Elizabeth would do was appear to exult in her good fortune. Everyone connected wearing diamonds with wealth. "You have the key? Well then, let's look at them. They all belong to Lizzy now, since we sent Georgie's jewels to Matlock, but she will still appreciate it if I find one to give her as a specific gift. Maybe something will look right."

They went upstairs to the strongbox where the all of the old family jewels were kept in Elizabeth's sitting room. Mrs. Reynolds unlocked and opened the iron bound strong box. The contents glittered in the midday sun light, set off by the black velvet lining the box.

Darcy pulled all of the small boxes and bags and jewelry out and spread them on the desk. There were piles of diamonds, pearls, and gaudy bracelets. None fit Lizzy. Perhaps this whole idea was doomed. She could never feel more than sisterly affection for him.

Darcy desultorily sifted through them, aware that Mrs. Reynolds was watching. It was stupid the way his emotions were shooting up and then down. He wanted something special. Perhaps he should find a book as a gift, or something similar, something that would show he'd been thinking of her alone.

A thin silver bracelet caught Darcy's eye. He pulled it up and rubbed over the inscription: Amor Vincit Omnia. It had been his grandmother's.

Grandmama had told Darcy the story of how the bracelet had been given to her by his grandfather partly as an affectionate joke. She made fun of her husband's fascination with Latin, and they both adored Chaucer whose Prioress wore a bracelet with those words. Darcy remembered sitting in his grandmother's lap as a little boy, and running his fingers over the inscription.

His grandfather had died before he was born, so Darcy never met him, but their marriage had been a love match, and while Stanley was far too old to listen to an old woman, Darcy sat next to her and asked her to tell stories about the past and his grandfather.

Darcy knew Elizabeth would love it, especially once he'd told the story. He slipped into his pocket.

Finding such a bracelet was a good omen. Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all.

He frowned at the mess on Lizzy's desk. The strong box was nearly full, and if he simply piled everything in the expensive jewels would not fit. It would be bad to damage them by stuffing. "My apologies, Mrs. Reynolds, I am putting a great deal of work suddenly on you. Would you mind?" Darcy waved his hand over the mess.

The older woman nodded. "Certainly." She carefully placed the boxes and bags into the bottom of the container. "Is that your definite choice — it is rather…plain for a gift."

"Not at all — not at all. Elizabeth would not wish something expensive — she would be reminded of what he said — it was Grandmama's. I'd sit and play with it on her arm as a child. She will adore the sentiment. Shall you have all of the preparations for a private ball, just the two of us, ready by suppertime?"

"Do not worry. It will be done."

Darcy returned to the entry hall. He wanted to see if he could find Elizabeth immediately. He remembered which direction he'd seen Lizzy walk and set off that way.

It had been stupid to allow Elizabeth to spend so much time near Mr. Wickham. It was becoming more obvious every day that he was a poor sort of character. She was young and a little naïve. If he never tried to stop her, how would she know that she shouldn't be so close to Mr. Wickham?

Was he being a fool to dare hope Elizabeth could love him?

Darcy rubbed his fingers again over the bracelet in his pocket


	27. Chapter 27

Elizabeth tapped her chin as she walked away from the village and towards a long line of trees that had been cut to form a long perfect green bower. Something Wickham had said the other day made her think again about what had been an instinctive decision in London to purchase nothing after the trial. Even if she was not entertaining, Fitzwilliam might like it if she dressed better.

He'd been more somber and tense the past month, and Elizabeth needed to do something to improve his mood again. That idle hope that he was jealous of Wickham returned. But she'd seen no sign of the sort, and while it was a flattering thought, she wouldn't pretend to herself.

In the distance Elizabeth saw Wickham looking in a different direction from her, and without calling out to him, she tried to get behind the tree line to avoid the encounter. She enjoyed talking with him a great deal, but a month was enough to get to the bottom of his mind. The flutters she felt from being praised again for her beauty and the fun of light flirtatious conversation could not survive weekly encounters. He flirted compulsively because that was the only way he knew how to speak to a woman.

Wickham saw her and called out, "Mrs. Darcy, I had hoped to see you some time soon. Walking without your maid today? You look like a woodland nymph, framed by the trees and with those flashing eyes."

Elizabeth smiled and absently responded in like manner. He hurried up and took her arm.

Wickham was the opposite of Fitzwilliam. It was strange and delightful how after months of talking to her husband for hours a day, she now always found more she wished to say to him.

The sole variety in Mr. Wickham was that he could come up with novel compliments. Though even there he was a little disappointing. This was the third time he'd compared her to a nymph, though one of them had been a river nymph when he saw her near the stream.

She smiled brightly at him, forcing away her ill mood that came from her worry about Fitzwilliam. "Did you hope to speak to me on some matter before we dined on Thursday?"

"Can I not be drawn simply by the brightness of your company?"

There was something different today in Wickham's manner, and it made Elizabeth feel strangely uncomfortable. But she replied, "Of course you might. There is nothing more natural."

Wickham was more impressive as a person before one was on intimate terms with him. She'd seen how he was obsessed with station and keeping distance from those beneath him, and unlike the vicar near Longbourn, he did not distribute charity and kind visits to his tenants. All of the real charitable work of the parish was done by Mr. Painter, and the money for charity continued to come from Elizabeth's pockets.

All of his sermons focused on the importance of God's mercy to sinners. It made Elizabeth wonder, just a little, if he had a guilty conscience. Except there was nothing of that in his smiling manners.

In sum, Elizabeth rather agreed with Wickham that it would have been better if Fitzwilliam's father had pushed his favorite godson towards the army, or maybe law, instead of the church.

Nothing of these thoughts showed in Elizabeth's manner as she bantered with her friend while they walked through the covered grove. He was her friend and he was kind to her when no one else in the neighborhood would. For that she owed him loyalty, even though he was flawed in many ways.

Wickham pulled her towards a side path. "Have you seen the little pond here with the benches? I imagine you must have."

"I have, but I have no objection to seeing it again." Elizabeth smiled at Wickham. The aroma of flowers and wet grass greeted them, and the pond sparkled in the sunlight, dappled by the light penetrating through the trees around them. Elizabeth sat on one of the almost warm stone benches. "This is a pretty spot; I come here often."

Mr. Wickham sat right next to her, it seemed improperly close. Elizabeth realized the thickly grown trees in the wood made the spot isolated. Wickham took her hand. Without knowing why, Elizabeth felt her heart race. She pulled the hand away and said, "Is it a favorite spot of yours as well? I have not seen you here, but do you visit to compose sermons? I imagine this would be a good location to write."

He looked at her intently and took her hand again.

She thought she was being silly but stood up again, planning to walk back onto the main path. She tried to pull her hand away as Wickham stood up with her. Then in a sudden movement he kissed her.

For a moment Elizabeth was so stunned by the sudden feeling of his lips on hers that she could not think or move. It felt pleasant, while when Sir Clement had kissed her it had felt like a vicious attack.

A sound behind her, like a shuffling of a person walking quickly, brought Elizabeth out of her daze, and she startled away from him, angry at Mr. Wickham and frightened someone watched them.

There was no one there, but her heart raced with fear and self-disgust. How had she ever given him the idea she would accept such a liberty?

Mr. Wickham brought his gloved hand up to touch her cheek and push her face towards him again. He tried to kiss her once more, and Elizabeth roughly pushed him away.

"Mr. Wickham, I am a married woman, and you are a man of God." She backed away.

"Please, Elizabeth, most beautiful Elizabeth. Ever since I saw you, I have loved you. It seems wrong, but Fitz has not treated you as he ought. My passion is such that it cannot be repressed. You feel the same for me, you must."

He took her hand and Elizabeth wrenched it away from him. "You say you've loved me? Nonsense. I am not… I will forget this and say nothing of what you have done. My manners must have been faulty to give you the impression I feel anything of the sort."

He smiled at her and said in his engaging manner that suddenly disgusted Elizabeth, "There is nothing faulty in your manners. You have only showed a perfect womanly affection. But your husband — he cares nothing for you. It cannot be wrong, for God is love, and my feelings for you are the purest imaginable. If only I had met you before you were tied to Fitz — but alas… Elizabeth, you do not love him. I do love you."

"I do love him. More than…" Somehow being accosted by Wickham made her realize clearer than ever before how desperately she loved him. Oh, she had been so wrong to ever be Wickham's friend and participate in his flirtatious games. She felt dirty and as though she had betrayed Fitzwilliam.

"Mr. Wickham, I am grieved that I gave you a false idea through replying to your flirtatious sallies and allowing you to praise me so. I truly believed it was in the nature of a game for you as well as me. I hope any affection you do feel for me will—"

"Surely you cannot let your legal tie to that heartless rock keep you from me. You are—"

"Do not insult my husband. He is the best man in the world, far, far better than I or you. I have wronged him, but I assure you, I would never, even if I did love you, betray him."

Elizabeth stalked angrily from the clearing. How dare he treat her and Fitzwilliam in such a depraved manner! Fortunately, Wickham did not try to follow her into the open. She had loved that spot, and now she didn't think she would ever sit on those benches again without loathing.

She had gone more than a mile along the path and seen Pemberley from many different perspectives before her anger began to cool. Elizabeth knew she must have been greatly at fault, but she could remember nothing that she had ever said that suggested a willingness to sin with the clergyman. She had talked about how Fitzwilliam did not love her, but she thought her affection for Fitzwilliam had always been present in what she said to Wickham.

Everything ill about Mr. Wickham's behavior that she'd learned, and which she had refused to think about, came back to Elizabeth's mind. He was exactly the sort of selfish man who would try to seduce a married woman if he had the slightest encouragement. Most men would not have seen her behavior as an invitation.

She didn't think they would.

Maybe they would. Sir Clement had said he was sure she only pretended to not want him.

It was the middle of summer, and Elizabeth sweated from the speed with which she marched around the park. The air was hot, and the park was filled with endless green and gold. Elizabeth pulled her handkerchief out again to wipe at her lips, to make sure there was no residue on her from his violation. Then she patted away the sweat on her forehead and running down the back of her neck.

Elizabeth wished there was an older woman she could trust who was nearby. She would write a letter to her aunt, but she truly did not think she had behaved differently from how young matrons about Longbourn did.

Fitzwilliam was so often awkward with those he was not close to, and he'd been away from England for so long that he probably had seen nothing dangerous in Wickham's manner. Even if he had…he would have warned her if he had any thought that Wickham would kiss her. He might not have been jealous — but he would not have knowingly exposed her to such a creature.

How could she face Fitzwilliam? It was strange that such an event made her realize how she needed and loved him. She wanted to be kissed, more than ever before, by him. Only by him. She imagined she was standing next to the clear pond again, except Fitzwilliam laid his lips on her instead of Wickham, and it was wonderful.

Elizabeth wiped a hand over her sweaty brow again and decided to head back to the house. She'd spent an hour and walked a third of the way around the circuit of the park. She turned towards the house along the main drive shaded by a line of massive century old oak trees.

She had hoped Fitzwilliam would just see her and desire her and love her one day. The anxiety about being rejected returned to her, but Elizabeth knew it was long past the right time to show him that she wanted him and see what would happen then. Maybe he would fall in love with her once he knew she loved him. Like Benedick and Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. Or he would tell her he didn't want her. Because she didn't deserve him. But, they were married, and he needed an heir, and she desperately wanted his lips to drive out the memory of Wickham's and Sir Clement's kisses.

She just wanted him to kiss her.

Even if he only kissed her because she wanted him to, and not out of his own desire…didn't men always enjoy such things, no matter who they were with?

When she entered the house Elizabeth handed her things to the butler. Mrs. Reynolds said, "Mrs. Darcy, the master wishes you to dress especially well for dinner. He plans to have a private party with music for just you two."

Elizabeth smiled delightedly. "Is he back? Such a sweet man."

"He went out walking a while ago, I believe he was looking for you. I had thought you two met in the way."

"I've been along the circuit of the park for the past hour. I will dress very well indeed then. Thank you."

She went upstairs and had Sarah draw a cool bath to get off the stick and sweat. When she was dressed for dinner and went downstairs, Elizabeth found Fitzwilliam in the drawing room. He wasn't reading anything, but instead he stared out the window while his hand rubbed at his scar. She looked at him from behind and smiled.

When she stepped forwards towards him with her biggest smile, he turned, and she saw that his face was pale.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam. Did something happen? Oh you have another headache. Mrs. Reynolds told me you plan to have a party tonight."

"Yes," he spoke with a quiet tone. "With dancing and a punch bowl. I thought you would like it."

"I do. I do. It is the best idea. Just the two of us. I love it." She sat next to Fitzwilliam and impulsively threw her arms around him. He was far stiffer than normal. Or was that only her own anxiety? She would tell him she loved him and wanted him to kiss her and make her his wife tonight.

Elizabeth peered at his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Turn around, let me message your neck."

He shook his head, but Elizabeth ignored this and used her hands to push him into the position she wanted and then dug her fingers into the supple muscles around the back of his neck. "Fitzwilliam, please tell me."

He sighed and didn't say anything while she massaged his neck, which was less tense than it usually was if he had a spell. But when she sat back, he took her hand and didn't say anything. It added to the anxiety she felt, even though his hand was so warm, his manner confused her.

When he didn't say anything, Elizabeth began to talk. She had no sense of what she was saying, but it was anything to fill the silence. He kept his tight grip on her hand.

At last the dinner bell rang, and they went into the grand hall. A platform had been set up in the corner, and the string quartet broke into a pretty melody the instant they entered the room. Elizabeth grinned delightedly at the musicians in their brown coats with the gleaming wood of the violins and cello. There was a single table, festooned with flowers and a silk cloth. A few candles sat in the middle, already lit.

It was such a romantic scene.

Elizabeth clapped delightedly and kissed Darcy's cheek.

The room was huge, with a ceiling thirty feet high. Giant mirrors along the wall faced towards the rest of the house and there was a long line of windows on the other. The sun was setting but still lit the whole room with a reddish glow, bouncing off of the line of mirrors.

Her heart caught, and she grinned delightedly at Fitzwilliam who at last smiled back at her. The earlier anxiety faded away, and he pulled out the chair for her to sit next to him.

The quartet now played a beautiful piece that was a favorite of Georgiana's.

There was a vast chandelier that was half lit, so that they could see where they moved, but it would be romantically dim once night fell.

"What an excellent idea! I should have thrown a party for just the two of us if I'd thought of it."

"You…you do like it?" There was something stuttering in Fitzwilliam's manner. As though he were surprised at how happy she was.

Now that whatever stiffness he'd felt an hour earlier was rubbing away, she was full of the realization she loved him, and the fact that he'd planned this evening for her. "Very, very, very, very much so. I am so happy. However, you owe me a question."

Fitzwilliam smiled. "Mrs. Darcy, might I beg your hand for the next dance?"

"Yes. You may. Let me see…" She pantomimed pulling an imaginary dance card out and staring at it. "I am free for the next dance, Mr. Darcy. And in fact the one after it."

"I am glad to hear it."

Darcy pulled Elizabeth up, and then he blushed. "I am somewhat out of practice."

"We shall manage together."

Elizabeth realized she had never danced with Fitzwilliam before, and she was very, very happy that they would dance together now.

The band played a simple piece, and it was rather odd to be dressed in full evening garb, with her best silk gown from Longbourn, and her shoulders bare, and her long white gloves while it was only her and Fitzwilliam. He was resplendent in his own dark tailcoat and tall white stockings.

He was out of practice, but so was she, and after a few minutes they remembered the steps, and he proved to be a fine partner. The perfect partner.

After they'd danced together for an hour, dinner was brought out; it included a variety of dishes she remembered from the year they'd traveled the continent together, and it made her almost cry with nostalgia and pleasure. "You do remember all this."

"I do."

"It was such a wonderful time. I…am so happy. Thank you, for…for everything."

He rubbed his long fingers against his scar, as he did when nervous. "Are you happy? Really happy, here with me?"

"I would want to be nowhere else."

Fitzwilliam frowned and they fell silent again. Elizabeth's anxiety returned. Even though the second course was sitting on the table, Elizabeth stood and held out her hand to him. "Dance with me again."

He looked at her hand for a surprisingly long time before he took it and stood. He led her back out to the middle of the floor, and the musicians struck up another piece of music. They moved together comfortably, staying mostly silent and looking at each other as the sprightly music continued. When the music faded away, their eyes were on each other.

Elizabeth decided now was the time to say what she felt. There was a magic in the moment, but Darcy's expression was an odd one. She breathed heavily from the dance and laughed. "It used to be I would not be out of breath from two sets."

"Yes. You danced. Often. This is not how you would wish to live."

"Not now! Not now. No words of that sort — I am perfectly happy. I only wish…I only wish we were entirely alone."

Darcy stared at her. His gaze into her eyes was intense. It made Elizabeth feel unspeakably anxious, as though something was wrong. He turned to the musicians and called out, "Thank you all for your performance. Do tell Mrs. Reynolds to give you an extra sovereign with my compliments."

With bows and murmured thanks, the four gathered up their instruments and left the room. They closed the door with a soft click.

She was alone with her dear Fitzwilliam. They held hands, and he looked at her with that odd intensity in the candlelight. She could still taste the wine on her tongue.

She loved him. She was his wife. Elizabeth closed the distance between them and stood on her toes to kiss Darcy on his mouth.

Their lips molded against each other. It was sweet and beautiful. Then Darcy ceased to kiss her and pushed her away, holding her at arms-length.

He gripped her shoulders so tightly they almost hurt and stared into her eyes. There was something bleak in the hard lines around his mouth and the way his forehead furrowed together. Why was he holding her away? A depression flooded her chest and stomach. Elizabeth realized he must really not want her.

"Lizzy," he said in a dead voice, "I saw you kiss him.


	28. Chapter 28

The image Darcy had seen of her kissing Wickham in that nook next to a green shrouded pond swam in his eyes as he pushed Lizzy away.

Elizabeth's face went white. She stammered out, "You…you saw — you made the noise — I…I…" She slumped, suddenly only held up by his tight grip on the balls of her shoulders. "I…I didn't mean to betray you. I did not want him to kiss me. I wouldn't. I would not intentionally—"

"Don't!" Elizabeth stared back, wide-eyed. Tears were beginning to leak out of the edge of her eyes. "Lizzy, you need not lie to me. I know what I saw, but I will not hurt you or… You do not need to fear me."

"Fitzwilliam, William — I assure you I did not ask him to kiss me." Her voice was pleading and teary. "I pushed him away once I realized what we were doing."

Darcy believed her. But it did not matter. She still loved Wickham, and if she never touched him again, it would not make things better. He just wanted Elizabeth to be happy.

Darcy released Elizabeth's shoulders and pulled at his hair in tension. Why had she kissed him tonight when she was in love with Wickham? A terrible thought grabbed Darcy, and angrily he said, "Are you with his child? Is that why you kissed me? You hope to seduce me so you can pass off Wickham's bastard as my heir?"

Elizabeth backed away. She was crying and shaking her head

Darcy grabbed a faceted crystal glass from the punch table, and he nearly hurled it with all the force he could muster against the giant mirror in the wall. Instead he repressed the gesture and shakily put the fine glass back on the table. He would not act as a barbarian in front of Lizzy.

His head and teeth ached.

"I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. I swear — I never, never, never would betray you that way. You — you are my husband, my…Fitzwilliam. I would never, never, never. I swear I am as innocent as I was the day you married me." Elizabeth had retreated several feet, but she held her hands pleadingly towards him.

"Oh! Sir Clement told me he had taken you. He said so before I stabbed him to death. So what does that mean?"

Darcy despised himself for the way Elizabeth blanched and flinched. "Don't…don't kill Wickham."

Of course. Elizabeth feared for her lover, not herself. Darcy promised harshly, "I won't."

Elizabeth gasped. "Is that why? I tell you, Sir Clement only kissed me and grabbed me. Did you believe that? Did it make me too dirty for you to desire? He had no opportunity to force my virtue, we were on the balcony of the assembly halls when he attacked me, and he was interrupted almost immediately. I never was alone with him again." She touched at her left breast and looked at him with her large, wet eyes. "He did grab me here. Is that too great of a violation for you to accept? Oh I should have told you everything before I ever let you marry me, but I was so scared. I have been such a…a…a…"

What was Elizabeth talking about? Darcy was glad that his fear that she had been raped was not true. Darcy sat down in a slump on one of the chairs around the small dining table. The pleasant aroma from the meal swam in his nostrils. "Forgive me — oh, Lizzy. Forgive me. I wish I had never made you marry me. Everything is wrecked."

Elizabeth blanched.

"I will not stop you — anything you wish to do with Mr. Wickham, I will look away. I will treat any child as my own son. I am only jealous. He is not hurting you as Sir Clement did."

"You mean you want me so little that you would tell me to…" Elizabeth recoiled from him, her eyes wide. "I cannot. I will not. I could never break my vows. And…"

"Elizabeth, you are not happy — I just want you to be happy. If you love him…"

"I do not love him." She shook her head frantically, the rich brown curls of hair flapping against her ears. "He is nothing in my heart next to you. Oh…you despise me so much. I love you. He is an awful, vile slug. After he touched me…I…I wanted you to touch me in that way. That is why I kissed you. I realized I…I love you — and you are so disgusted by me, that you would suggest I…oh God."

Elizabeth fled the room.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

He just wanted her to be happy.

Oddly Darcy did not have a headache; he'd only been angry for a moment. It was unhappiness not anger that he felt. He was alone in the room with the echoing sound of the door being thrown open as his only company. She had decided she wanted him.

Had she really loved him?

She thought he was rejecting her because she had been touched by Sir Clement, and she had interpreted his offer to let her carry on an affair freely with Wickham as an example of him despising her. Darcy slumped deep into the chair and stared at the food which would never be finished by them.

He felt like crying.

Why had he assumed Lizzy was in love with Wickham? You despise me so much.

He had despised someone, but it wasn't Elizabeth. Ever since the day he'd pushed her away when she grabbed him from behind. He'd never stopped despising himself for what he'd realized about who he was and how he had used Elizabeth. Even when Elizabeth had demanded he live and act as her friend and husband, he had still despised himself.

But today the jealous part of his mind had suspected that his wife, the woman he loved beyond anything, had committed adultery, and he didn't even throw the crystal glass against the wall.

He had failed her when he didn't rescue her without marriage, but he had truly believed he could make her happy, and that she would come to love him. And she had. And then he hurt her again, this time with his words.

The soup was cold on the table, exuding a dull meaty smell, and the candles were still fresh and tall. He saw himself reflected in the mirror along the wall: scarred, blue eyes, thin. He could not tell if his appearance was handsome.

Darcy absently stuck his hands into his pocket and felt his grandmother's bracelet. He had forgotten it was there. Darcy pulled it out and held it close before his face so that he could read the inscription in the flickering candlelight.

Amor Vincit Omnia.

Darcy stared at the inscription for a long time and then leapt to his feet. Gripping the bracelet tightly, he ran to Elizabeth's chambers.

Elizabeth had begun to properly sob. She had been selfish, and she had used Fitzwilliam, and…and Fitzwilliam would rather raise another man's child as his heir than make her into his true wife.

She still wore the ball gown from the evening. Elizabeth sat on her bed, leaning painfully against the hard wooden ridges of one of the tall oak posters, with her arms around her knees. She had not lit any candles, but the moon was full tonight, and she was bathed in a pale bluish white light from her windows with their wide-open curtains. It was near the middle of summer and the air was pleasantly warm, so no fire burned.

A sharp knock sounded on the door separating her bedroom from Fitzwilliam's, and the locked door knob rattled. "Lizzy, Lizzy. I beg you, let me speak to you. Please."

Elizabeth stood up and walked to the door. Her heart beat faster. Fitzwilliam had never come into her room, and though she still cried, there was a sudden fragile hope, like a butterfly flapping in her stomach. Before her good sense suppressed that achy hope, she had opened the door.

Fitzwilliam stood in the open doorway, one hand tightly gripping some small object. He was lit from behind by a full candleholder, but the light was still dim, and his features were indistinct. Despite how he had rejected her, she perceived the thin pale line of his lips, and she wanted to kiss him again. Elizabeth desperately stared at his lips. No — she wanted him to kiss her. In this long silent moment, she wanted that more intensely than she had ever wanted anything before, including escape from the room they had imprisoned her in.

If he kissed her, she would know they could still become happy.

In a sudden movement Fitzwilliam did so, his lips tightly, hungrily pressing against hers, and his arms around her back pulled her painfully tight against his chest. One hand wound around her back and the metal object he held in it dug deeply into her shoulder, while the other was behind her neck, tilting her face up so he could freely kiss her lips.

Instantly Elizabeth responded, pressing one hand into the wonderfully silky hair above his neck, and using the other one to pull herself even more tightly against him.

He was rough in his kisses and hold, as though demanding she know he did feel passion and desire for her. Somehow she felt the message, and through their kisses and her teary cheeks Elizabeth smiled.

He did want her.

He could not kiss her and hold her like this if he did not want her as much as she wanted him. Darcy moved his lips and kissed her cheeks. He tilted her neck to kiss the sensitive skin behind her ear. There was a spot which when Fitzwilliam found she felt a flash go through her body, and she shuddered and compulsively clutched him closer, pressing her neck into his lips as he sucked and nibbled.

He flicked his tongue against her ear and whispered harshly, "I want you. I want you more than I could ever want anything else. I have dreamed and dreamed of kissing your neck below where your curls fall. Every time you have touched me, I have wanted to pull you so tightly against me that you could barely breathe. You are the most desirable, loveable woman in the world."

Elizabeth used her hand on the back of Fitzwilliam's head to pull his mouth back so that she could kiss it again. A rapture filled her, where no fact except that he wanted her mattered.

They stumbled to her bed, and Fitzwilliam lifted her up, holding her bottom and pressing her whole body against his. She felt all his arousal and need for her, and instinctively she rolled her hips against his. Then they fell together onto her bed, hanging tightly against each other and pressing their lips and hands against each other.

"I love you, I love you, I need you," Elizabeth whispered.

"Your hands, your stomach, your tanned nose, the curve of your bosom in your dresses, the sight of your handwriting, the way you smile. Our friendship. Everything makes me love you. Never doubt that I have always loved every smallest feature of you," Fitzwilliam whispered again and again to her.

Elizabeth's heart was full. She did not know how it had happened, but she did distantly understand he had just been being foolish and had thought he followed her wishes when he did not come to her before. She hungrily kissed him, showing with her body how much she desired him, and how happy she was that he had at last come to her.

Everything but their consciousness of being together faded away


	29. Chapter 29

Early the next morning Elizabeth snuggled into wakefulness, feeling odd and almost uncomfortably warm. A large arm was draped over her shoulders and across her breasts, and she was naked under the sheets. She remembered everything as she wriggled backwards to press her body against her husband's. Fitzwilliam groaned and shifted in his sleep and pulled her tighter against him, his mouth a few inches from her neck breathing warm, tingly air over her sensitive skin.

Elizabeth grabbed Fitzwilliam's arm with her own and stayed still to enjoy the warmth and strength of his broad chest. His chest slowly expanded and contracted in rhythm.

She had known of the mechanics, but the fact of the marital act was so much more…intimate than she'd expected. She felt a little sore and sticky, but she would absolutely not disturb Fitzwilliam's sleep to try to clean herself.

A stupidly wide smile sat across her face. The day outside had dawned, and the light streamed through her open window, and birds chirped outside. One settled on her windowsill and cocked its head to study them, and even though they were both covered by the sheets, Elizabeth blushed as she grinned at the small animal.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

She had been right when she decided she wanted to kiss him. There was nothing better than touching and holding her wonderful, wonderful husband.

How had it all come about? When did he fall in love with her? For Elizabeth, she thought she had always been in love with him, even if for a long time it was her imagined correspondent she had loved. In truth her imagined correspondent hadn't been quite like Fitzwilliam. He had been chattier and younger and he only disagreed with her in predictable ways.

Her imagined Fitzwilliam never had the real man's sharp edges or the way he needed her to comfort him when angry. He hadn't been scarred by his war, and he hadn't meant nearly as much to her. He hadn't been the living man who slept with his arms around her.

The servant's door rattled open and as Elizabeth's face went dark red, Sarah entered the room saying, "Good morning, Ma'am."

She always entered at about this time in the day to see if Elizabeth was awake and to help her dress for the day.

Elizabeth winced at the noise and expected Darcy to wake, but he didn't even stir. Sarah saw the situation and went red and backed away. Elizabeth was as red as her maid, but grinned hugely at her as with a slight curtsey Sarah exited the room. The door whispered shut.

Fitzwilliam still didn't stir. Hmmm. He was a heavy sleeper. Someday she would need to find a plan to take advantage of that. Elizabeth shifted his arm so it lay more fully across her breasts. Even better.

She would need to talk with Sarah about modifying their habits. She hoped Fitzwilliam would sleep with her most nights.

He wasn't a mindreader; he was her dearest friend. She would tell him she wanted him in her bed. Or maybe herself in his. But they would fall asleep together every night, or she would be quite displeased. If only she had asked him why he hadn't come to her, they could have done this months ago. And then she never would have engaged in that grotesque flirtation with Wickham.

The entire time she'd simply wanted Fitzwilliam's admiration, but he'd shown no jealousy because he had not yet truly desired her… except he had.

Elizabeth's face burned pleasurably again as she remembered what he had whispered into her ears last night. He'd imagined kissing her neck and her bosom, and her legs, and everything else. From what he said those were not new fantasies. He certainly had desired her for some time. Elizabeth wiggled her back against his warmly muscled chest again. She was so happy. The light through her window was brightening, and the bird had flown away, startled when Sarah entered the room.

She understood how Fitzwilliam thought. Last night he had wanted to explicitly make her know how much he wanted her. She'd said what now felt like complete nonsense about how she thought he was disgusted by her. He had desired her, but he had made a strong effort to not show it.

Idiot, she thought fondly.

But she had acted as stupidly. She wanted him to look at her like a lover, and because she was hurt that he didn't she had flirted with Wickham. Elizabeth felt a wave of pain that passed down her throat through her chest and into her stomach. She remembered telling Mr. Wickham everything about their marriage, even how Fitzwilliam hadn't shared her bed. She had been such a fool, and she pretended it was permissible because Fitzwilliam had claimed to not be jealous.

Had he already been in love with her then? Surely not. He would have said something.

He did. He said exactly what he had said last night. He just wanted her to be happy.

Tears popped into her eyes. Elizabeth was filled with a pungent combination of guilt and love for Fitzwilliam. He had wanted her affection but been frightened of rejection. His feelings had been so like her own.

Oh, she loved him so much.

She had not been a good wife for him. It had been her duty to expose herself first. She had sworn when he married her that she would do everything she could to make him happy. And then out of fear she had let him not understand that she loved him, and that if he wanted her, she wanted him. It would have felt impossible to speak of it, before the intimacy they had shared, but she should have.

And then when she was unhappy, she had turned to that horrid rake for comfort.

She didn't deserve her Fitzwilliam.

In a guilty movement Elizabeth pulled away from Fitzwilliam, moving towards the edge of the bed. She had a vague thought she would dress and take a walk, but then realized she couldn't. He deserved for her to be there when he woke.

Fitzwilliam stirred awake as he reached for where she had been a second ago. He shook his tousled head, and then his blue eyes popped open. He looked at her blearily and smiled, as always the uninjured side of his face pulled fully back into a wonderful dimple. His eyes were lit with affection, the hand that had been holding her reached forward to pull her back towards him.

Elizabeth threw herself against him, not paying any attention to how they were both naked, and kissed him fiercely. "I'm horrible and don't deserve you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

He kissed her back tenderly and then blushed and awkwardly shifted away when he rubbed his arm against her back, and realized that she was naked. "Should we perhaps dress?"

Elizabeth blushed. And then inspired by her earlier guilt, she forced herself to say what she wanted, despite how embarrassed she felt. She hoped Fitzwilliam would like her response. "No. No, we shouldn't."

One of her legs was entangled with his, and they faced each other across a space of inches. She could see the hair on the top of his chest with how the blankets fell about, and Fitzwilliam's eyes fell to where she realized her breasts were visible.

His eyes popped open, and he stared almost hungrily. It made Elizabeth shy and elated. His hand moved to softly brush over her breast, and Elizabeth pushed herself into his hand as the sensation sent sparks all through her body.

Things likely would have followed immediately the path of the previous night, if Fitzwilliam had not paused, looked closely into her face, and then moved his hand away, seemingly confused as to where to put it. "Lizzy, you are not horrible — Wickham was completely my fault. Entirely mine. You should not feel any guilt about that. I completely believe what you said, that you pushed him away. I always will believe whatever you tell me."

"But I trusted him, and I did like him, and I enjoyed flirting with him, and I'd hoped it would make you notice me. It was a low feminine trick, and it seems to have worked. I really liked and enjoyed how he admired me, and I shouldn't have, and—"

He put his arm around her back and pulled her against his chest and kissed her forehead. She could feel how he stiffened at the contact with her breasts and then instinctively they both pulled their faces towards each other so they could kiss. Their noses bumped and awkwardly moved against each other before they found a position which allowed Fitzwilliam to nibble wonderfully at her lower lip.

Elizabeth's sense of guilt dissolved into the pleasure she felt at their affection and closeness. Darcy stopped kissing her and whispered, "You really should feel no guilt."

"I can't feel guilty when you kiss me that way. But I ought to."

Darcy tried to pull back from her a little, and he said, "We must talk, at length, and I have my own apologies to make."

Elizabeth forcefully pulled Darcy's mouth towards her again, and remembering how much she had enjoyed it when he did so the previous night, brushed her tongue along his teeth and then on his tongue. "We shall talk," she whispered breathily, pulling Fitzwilliam's hand back to where it belonged on her breast, "later."

Later did not arrive quickly, but eventually Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam parted long enough to dress and go down to breakfast. When Sarah came to do her hair, she made no comment, but smiled broadly at Elizabeth. Elizabeth did suggest that in the future she should wait to enter the room till rang for. The two girls grinned at each other, and Elizabeth took longer than she liked to make sure she looked as pretty as possible today for Fitzwilliam, though she planned for her hair to be entirely ruined once again before the long summer afternoon was over.

After he had gone to his own room to dress, Elizabeth found on her side table a pretty silver bracelet that looked quite old and had been inscribed with Amor Vincet Omnia. It was such a delightful thought. And true. She remembered something held in Fitzwilliam's hand digging into her back when he first kissed her last night. He must have placed it there as they started to undress each other and forgotten it. What a delightful gift.

Elizabeth kissed the words, and slipped it onto her hand.

She giggled, she was silly today.

When she joined Fitzwilliam to walk downstairs, she was astonished again to note how handsome her husband was. He had perfect thick wavy hair, with a lock that fell over his forehead. His skin was still deeply tanned from his time in the tropics and on the ship. His lean, trim figure had filled out with extra muscles and bulk from how thin he had been when she first saw him after his return.

Most important of all there was the hungry look in his eyes when he stared at her. She felt exactly the same way. Now that they had finally become man and wife there was something extremely addictive about the activity. The two kissed right in the hallway for several minutes. Unfortunately, Elizabeth's stomach growled, and she was hungry as she had eaten barely anything the previous night.

As they descended, Elizabeth displayed her wrist to Fitzwilliam. "Look at this delightful bracelet I found on my dresser. I adore it. You ought to give me such gifts, or else I might lose my heart to the mystery admirer who left it there."

"He seems to be a rather improper fellow, slipping into women's bedrooms. And I wonder when he had the opportunity. I was there the whole of last night."

"You did not hear his entrance? Strange."

"Very."

They sat around the small table already piled with their favorite foods. The bacon and ham and bread and fish all smelled so delicious. Fitzwilliam pulled Elizabeth's chair out with a flourish, and after making an elaborate curtsy she settled onto the cushioned seat with a blushing smile. Sitting down himself and piling her favorite foods onto her plate, Fitzwilliam said, "The bracelet — I hoped you would love it. When I looked through the box for a gift yesterday, everything was expensive and…impersonal. And then…"

Elizabeth nodded eagerly, "It is perfect. Love conquers all."

Fitzwilliam filled his own plate, and Elizabeth began eating, chewing the perfectly cooked meats. He said, "Yes — but not just that, it has a story. You see the bracelet was once my grandmother's and her marriage was a love match too, and I sat on her lap as a child, playing with the bracelet while she told me stories about Grandfather and how happy they had been together."

"Oh." Elizabeth sighed happily, and she grinned at Darcy. "Thank you, thank you." She kissed the bracelet again. He grabbed her hand and kissed it and then blushed when he saw that he'd left behind a residue of syrup. Elizabeth giggled at his chagrin, and he laughed at her giggles. She held her hand out for him to lick the syrup off, which he did.

The breakfast passed with Elizabeth in a giggly good humor. They played together with their feet under the table, and intentionally brushed their hands against each other every time they moved anything. It was quite indecent the way they couldn't stop smiling at each other. He looked so, so, so happy.

His happiness was the best part.

Seeing how he glowed was even better than how good the way they'd touched and moved together had felt. This morning's activities had been even more pleasurable than the previous night, and she thought that with practice it could get even better.

Elizabeth adored the way delight filled every corner of Fitzwilliam's face and the way he brightened every time Elizabeth said, casually, "My love, would you pass the butter."

He quirked his eyebrows, as the tray was quite easily in her reach on the small table and said, "Of course, I would be delighted to do anything for you, my love."

After he handed the tray to Elizabeth, he said, "Now, loveliest woman whom I love, could you pass the ham to me."

Even though he was, a little, teasing her, Elizabeth beamed at him, and moved the tray, which was actually closer to Fitzwilliam than her. She directly placed two of the slices of ham onto his plate. He grinned at her, "Thank you, I love you for that kindness."

"Well, I love you more. After all you gave me the butter, which is much superior to ham."

"No" — Fitzwilliam smirked and shook his head — "Much as I despise disagreeing with you, my love, I have more cause to love you because ham is the finest of the meats, while butter is just cream. So I love you more."

Elizabeth giggled and brought her lower calf up to rub against the outside edge of Darcy's knee. His eyes darkened as he stared into her eyes. She stared back, and they quite forgot the meal until the footman reentered the room. Then they sat back and finished eating, with that light laughing humor filling them. He was so much handsomer than ever before now that he was really happy, and now that they had shared such intimacy.

They decided they would take a walk halfway around the park, and Darcy delayed all his planned meetings with his steward and tenants until next week. Now was the time for their honeymoon, and even more than usual, they would be solely at each other's disposal for the next weeks.

By mutual agreement, they also left their gloves behind, and walked with their bare fingers laced together. Elizabeth wondered if she would have the bravery to someday seduce Fitzwilliam in a hidden corner of the park. It was a gorgeous summer day, all of the plants were heavy and bedecked with green, the meadows in the park were tall and would soon be cut for hay, and the air was heavy with the smells of warm grass and pollen and growing things. Squirrels and birds darted about, and cattle could be heard mooing in the distance.

Tingles of desire went up Elizabeth's arm from where their fingers were tangled.

However, while they started the walk in a comfortable laughing mood, Darcy fell silent and became a bit morose as he gripped Elizabeth's hand more tightly. She could tell he was unhappy and worried about what he had decided he must say. He at last drew in a breath to speak, but Elizabeth interrupted him, speaking rapidly. "You need not tell me anything you do not wish — you can have nothing to apologize about — all the unpleasantness we have suffered was my fault, and I truly do not deserve to be so happy with you, but do not worry, we shall enjoy my undeserved desserts together very, very well."

"Your fault?" Darcy tilted his head to the side and his smile was crooked. "I know you well enough, my love, to be aware you shall not be happy until you have had an opportunity to explain that extraordinary notion. But I must say, you have no reason to feel guilty about Mr. Wickham. I stupidly threw you towards him — by the way, I do not think he is quite the sort of man who ought to be a vicar, and—"

"Oh, he is not. Wretched creature, he gives a good sermon, but from what he said, he wanted to seduce me from the moment we met. A man of God with such a thought. The only reason he hesitated for even a month was the fear of your sword. Is there a way to buy him out — and do promise you will not duel him. My nerves are still destroyed from the first time you dueled someone for my honor."

"I won't duel him. I neglected you, for stupid reasons, which is part of what I must apologize about and—"

"You had some nonsense in your head that I didn't want you and that you didn't want to impose where you were unwanted. That is obvious enough. And I should have known you well enough to realize that you were trying to respect what you imagined were my wishes. So you see it was my fault. I was too scared of being rejected by you. Instead of talking to you I used Wickham to make you jealous. And I was so annoyed when you told me you weren't that I was even more eager to encourage him. So it was a little your fault. But I should have been braver. I will always tell you what I want from now on, even if I am quite scared. By the way" — Elizabeth blushed but spoke in a hurry — "I expect us to fall asleep together most nights. I have never enjoyed anything so much as waking up with your arms around me."

Fitzwilliam blinked at that. A smug handsome smile grew on his face, and he drawled, "From your enthusiasm this morning, I am forced to strongly suspect there is at least one activity you enjoy more."

Elizabeth blushed, and Fitzwilliam smirked at her. She had to kiss and taste his lips again, solely to make him stop looking so smug. However, when she drew back, he looked even smugger.

"Horrid man," Elizabeth cried out, "to call a lady on such a dissimulation, and to speak so forwardly on such a topic, and to a girl who was a blushing maiden just yesterday. That is very ungentlemanlike conduct."

"Now, now, Lizzy. My adored, cherished love. I have always thought you to prefer knowing when you are incorrect. And I have made you my closest study for many months now, so it is no surprise that I recognize your preferences on this matter better than you yourself. But as for your suggestion — sharing the same bed is a very good idea. I've never slept so well. And it will provide opportunities for early morning exercise."

Elizabeth giggled, remembering Sarah's wide-eyed expression as she entered their room. "You slept very well indeed. I was beginning to think nothing would wake you up. Sarah entered my room with a quite loud greeting, and I was quite in dread that you would wake up, but you did not even stir."

"I was forced to learn to sleep with forty men in the same room while in India. You'll never wake me without some effort. Such things happen with servants. You were not…excessively embarrassed?"

"No." Elizabeth blushed, and she was too embarrassed to admit that being seen with Fitzwilliam in bed made her proud. But she had just promised to be completely honest. "I liked someone knowing that we'd claimed each other at last."

They walked on and reached a promontory that overlooked the fields to the east of Pemberley, half what she could see was Darcy's land, and half was Mr. Hunt's estate. They sat on the bench to rest a little in the shade as the hour was late enough that the summer sun already made it rather sweaty to walk about. A hawk circled lazily in the air, and a pair of sparrows jumped from a nearby tree to flap around each other in small circles.

Darcy put his arm around her and pulled her side flush against his. She laid her head against his shoulder, enjoying the closeness and the feel of his wool coat brushing against the edge of her breast.

He said quietly after they sat together for several drowsy minutes, "It was my place to protect and care for you, and I failed."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I swore I would be the perfect wife, and I was the one who failed. After you rescued me, I swore you would never regret marrying me, because I would do everything I could to make you happy, and I didn't. Oh, I often think Mr. Allen was right that I took advantage of you."

Fitzwilliam squeaked. He said in a strangled voice, "You think you took advantage of me?"

"You were in such a vulnerable state, and you had just returned and hadn't had any delicate company for years. And your brother had just died. You hadn't yet fully understood how that changed your marital expectations. And you were only marrying me because I needed to be rescued, and if I hadn't been such a coward, I could have convinced you I didn't need to be rescued, since once I reach one and twenty, I could have gotten out. But I was a coward and—"

"Don't be absurd."

"It was cowardly. You suffered worse in your prison—"

"No. Even in that period where they didn't allow our chamberpots to be cleared out, at least we had a little light and too much conversation. Your imprisonment was worse. The only manner in which our condition was poorer than yours is that for a year we were constantly terrified that Tippoo might order us killed of a sudden. But in material conditions I would far prefer Tippoo's hospitality to that of your cousin and mother."

"Oh."

"Lizzy, you looked…terrible and desperate. It pulled at my heart more than any other sight I have ever seen. Even if — I never could have left you there, no matter what. But..." Fitzwilliam pulled Elizabeth tighter against his side and peered closely at her face. "My motives were not like that. You see…I — well, I—" The hand around her shoulder convulsively squeezed tighter. He took a deep shuddering breath and looked away from her out over the expansive vista. "I know you will forgive me, but the thoughtless and selfish way I acted then has filled me with shame the more I have thought about it. You see I married you because I was already in love with you."

Elizabeth frowned. "You are confusing the sequence of events. You love me now, but you couldn't have loved me then. You hadn't seen me for years, and I had been just a little girl when you left."

"Your letters. Nothing. Nothing has ever meant so much to me as they did. I read each at least fifteen times." Tears stood in the edges of his eyes, and he brushed them away with the hand that was not tightly gripping her against him. "Elizabeth Darcy, I loved you long before I reached London, and I was determined to pursue you and ask for your hand if you were yet unattached."

"Oh. My letters." Her chest bubbled with happiness. She remembered how intensely he had looked at her that day when she first saw him again. "You were in love with me this whole time. I see that now. Why ever did you not tell me?"

"At first I did not think to, I was so focused on establishing matters with Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet, and I wanted you to come to properly know me before I made demands on your affection—"

Elizabeth laughed and interrupted him, "I'm shocked that how I looked, and worse, smelled, did not drive any thoughts of the sort from your mind when you first saw me."

"You were completely beautiful. I was only shocked by how beautiful you looked."

She laughed again. "You must have been already in love to have thought that. You were handsome too, though a little strange at first."

Fitzwilliam pressed his free hand against the scar over his cheek, and he said, "I do not think I was."

Even before he'd spoken, the simple act of his drawing her attention to the scar made Elizabeth realize what he'd been thinking and why he felt guilty.

"You goose. I should be quite cross with you. To think that you thought I would care about such a triviality."

He rubbed his hand over the scar. "You stared at it when you first saw me. And I knew it might affect your opinion. You wrote in one of your letters that while everyone claims it is wrong to judge a man on their physical beauty, we all do so a little nonetheless."

"I wrote that? Well. It is true. Your appearance does add to your virtues." Elizabeth pulled his hand away from the scar, and kissed and licked the wrinkly, leathered tissue. Fitzwilliam silently caressed her hand as she did so. "I like your scar, and if at first I was mistaken enough to only think that you were handsome despite it, your good looks have never been in question for me."

"Lizzy — I behaved very wrongly. Listen to me seriously. I wished to marry you, and I knew that you would not refuse me when you would either remain imprisoned or be forced to marry a man who rightly terrified you. I knew you planned to marry only for affection and love, and in my selfishness I took advantage of the situation to force you to marry without them."

Knowing Fitzwilliam wished her to be serious, she straightened and listened carefully. Elizabeth considered what he had said. She had learned he had a tendency to feel too much guilt when he spent those days drunk during the first week of their marriage. She needed to understand his guilt so she could tease and argue him out of it.

The stone bench was hard beneath her, and Elizabeth shifted about to become more comfortable, rubbing the side of her leg against Fitzwilliam. It was very distracting. She certainly didn't feel any anger at his announcement that he'd married her because he loved her and not just to rescue her; naturally her feelings were quite the opposite.

It did make sense he would fall in love with her through the letters. It was far more reasonable than the way she had instinctively loved him enough to marry because of how she had imagined him to be wonderful because she wrote the letters. Elizabeth squeezed Darcy's hand hard to reassure him that she wasn't thinking ill of him.

"Now, your explanation that you already loved me makes me so happy that I am finding it quite difficult to remain as somber as you begged me to," Elizabeth said at last, "but I do see why you think you should feel guilty — though I did not need to marry you, not really, I had already proven that I would resist pressure to avoid marriage to a person I did not wish to marry."

"Refusing me under those circumstances and refusing Sir Clement were very different matters. You were desperate to escape, and the only way I offered for you to escape was by marrying me."

"Did you have a different notion for how to remove me? Because even if you sprung me by force, we would have needed to go to Scotland and marry so that Mama would no longer be my guardian. Or I suppose we could have hidden together on the continent, or something of the sort, but our marriage was the most direct and legal solution."

"It struck me afterwards that I could have given Mrs. Bennet a much larger bribe to let you go without marriage to me, but I wasn't sure if your guardianship could be transferred in an ironclad manner, and I thought—"

"A much larger bribe? You gave ten thousand for my sisters' dowries!"

"Yes."

"Larger than that?"

"If I mortgaged the townhouse and put up all of my own fortune, I would have had at least forty thousand in ready cash; as it happened Stanley also had twenty thousand in the funds."

"Would you have settled that sum directly on my mother, or me, or…? Really, Fitzwilliam, it would be completely absurd to give that much money to a woman you weren't marrying." Elizabeth laughed. He was so sweet. And he was starting to smile a little as she continued to laugh at him.

"I confess it wasn't a good plan, but I should have given you the choice. So you see, I did act wrongly."

"By not immediately offering me a gift of forty thousand in exchange for nothing. Very wrong." Elizabeth grinned and tapped one hand against her leg. "I wonder what I would have thought if you returned that evening with such a scheme to avoid marrying me. I probably would have been hurt and told you I'd rather go back to my room than let you do such a thing and then begged you to smuggle me to France with a little money so I would not starve."

Darcy quirked a smile. "That would have been cheaper. See, if we had looked for one, we could have found a reasonable scheme to rescue you without marriage."

"I am glad you did not suggest it. I was too unused to you and would not have realized that you were actually saying you loved me. While we have communicated so easily in other matters, with our deepest feelings we have been quite too shy and scared to think clearly. That is your punishment. I order you to never hide what you feel from me again, just as my punishment is to always tell you precisely what I think and want. Our life will be much simpler and happier this way."

"I swear."

"Now, in actual fact you have no reason to feel any guilt. I was quite happy to marry you; do you believe I would have written all of those letters if I was not a little in love with you? It had been a girlish thing, but I had a strong tendre towards you when you left. The day you came to Pemberley, when your father was dying, Georgiana and I sat by the entrance to his office…and then you came out…I knew then that you were the most handsome creature I had ever seen."

"Oh." Fitzwilliam looked startled, but pleased. "You were just a little girl."

"Not so little." Elizabeth laughed. "However, I will confess that girlish admiration was not the same thing as I feel now. When I said I would marry you, I was frightened that we might be making a mistake, since I did not truly know you so well, and because I was sure you did not love me yet, but what I felt for you was already the beginning of love."

Fitzwilliam pulled their entangled hands to his chest and then kissed her part of it. "I am glad to hear that. My love." Darcy groaned and grinned at her. "I have been such an idiot — it is my turn to say that you had not seen me or heard of me for nearly five years."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Do not forget that you'd sent that letter before you left Madras. I received it a month before I was imprisoned, and it had become my most precious possession. I confess I read it several times a day and once or twice kissed it." Fitzwilliam grinned rather sloppily at that romantic confession. Elizabeth delayed speaking to kiss him briefly. "Further, you rescued me the instant you were off the boat. I knew enough of your present character to believe in you."

"So if that evening I said that I desperately wished to marry you because I'd fallen in love with you through your letters, but I had thought of a way to rescue you without marriage, things would have gone well."

Fitzwilliam smiled at her, and Elizabeth decided once more that he had a very handsome nose. And delightful eyebrows. Elizabeth kissed him. "You would have said: Lizzy, I figured out that we don't need to marry and I will spend a ridiculous sum to keep from marrying you. And I would have felt crushed. It was best you did not."

"I have been quite the coward, in addition to an idiot."

"Maybe, a little." Elizabeth kissed him passionately, with an open mouth. He kissed her back just as firmly. When they paused, Elizabeth said, "You are my idiot.


	30. Chapter 30

"Mr. Wickham wishes to see you, sir."

"Wickham! The parson?" Darcy looked up from the map of his lands he was examining with the steward.

The footman nodded. "Yes, sir."

That was a surprise. Wickham had not approached them since that wonderful day, which was not the less wonderful for the unpleasant way Wickham had featured in it. Darcy rather strongly suspected Wickham was scared he might be challenged if he showed his face. For their part the Darcys had stopped attending services at his chapel, and instead attended a village church in the opposite part of the neighborhood.

It had been three weeks, and Darcy was ridiculously happy, and in two days he and Lizzy would leave for a honeymoon during which they would revisit all of their favorite locations on the continent. They would be gone at least six months. If Wickham wished to speak to Darcy about some important matter, he did have to do so now.

Darcy said with a calm voice, "Bring him in. Mr. Thomas, we will finish this discussion when he leaves."

Darcy sat straight in the large chair behind his large desk. He hoped he looked sufficiently intimidating. He was completely calm. The jealousy of Wickham disappeared once he knew he had Elizabeth's heart. He despised the clergyman, of course, but that could not interfere with his present happiness.

Wickham entered, smiled amiably, and eagerly extended his hand to Darcy. Darcy remained seated at his desk and glared at the man. Calm or not, there was no reason to be polite when it was just the two of them present.

After holding his hand out for a long pause, Wickham's smile disappeared, and he hesitantly settled himself on the chair in front of Darcy's desk. Darcy continued to stare coldly at Wickham, internally delighted by how uncomfortable and disconcerted he appeared.

At last Wickham rubbed his hand over his pant leg and said, "Fitz, old friend, I'm in a bit of a scrape. Could you spot me for a little cash?"

Darcy contemplated making a flat rejection but continuing to stare seemed like it would be more fun.

"It's not so much, but I need it quickly, and I have no one else to go to."

Which was to say he had no one to go to. Poor man. He seemed desperate for the ready. There was a little boy behind Darcy's cold expression who was sticking his tongue out and blowing Wickham a raspberry.

"Now, please, Fitz. I know we haven't been the best of friends, but I was your brother's closest companion, and your father raised me. That should matter a little, old connections."

What he wanted to see now is if he could drive Wickham off while saying absolutely nothing. He'd also then ask some of his men to keep an eye out and tell him what Wickham sold off or how he changed his behavior to clear this debt. It would definitely be something to laugh about with Elizabeth.

Wickham wiped at his forehead. "Mrs. Darcy said I should ask you."

Suddenly unamused, Darcy leaned forward and growled menacingly, "When did you speak to Mrs. Darcy?"

Wickham's eyes went wide, and he flinched back. "I swear we just talked a half hour ago when I met her while making one of her calls. I just asked her for a loan — that maid of hers was there too. She said she would not make such a loan, but she encouraged me to ask you."

Darcy leaned back. He wondered if Lizzy had been worried and hoped to escape being imposed on, or if she had sent Wickham to him as a joke. "Just what did Mrs. Darcy tell you?"

"She promised you would be pleased to hear my request. So you see, your wife would like you to help me."

Darcy smiled coldly at Wickham. It was definitely a joke. "Wickham, did you think she wouldn't tell me?"

"Oh." Wickham went pale, and he stared at Darcy as though he were a dangerous animal.

"Yes. She thought I would be pleased to hear you are desperate for funds. I am. Delighted. It doesn't surprise me — I knew you could not possibly afford that equipage off of your income. Did Stanley keep letting you win money off of him at cards?"

Wickham threw himself on his knees and said, "Fitz, it might be my life. I borrowed money from Mr. Corbin of Bath. After your brother died, I was deep in my cups and gambled more than I could afford. He is a hard man, no respect for the cloth, and he once murdered a man who did not pay him back quick enough. I know you have reason to dislike me — but I am still your father's godson. I beg you."

Darcy kept his cold glare on the kneeling man while he organized his thoughts. "Get back up, Wickham. You might damage your trousers, and you may need to sell them. I imagine it is a substantial sum — how much do you owe?"

A startled light brightened in Wickham's eyes, and he quickly returned to his chair. "Two thousand."

"So you only lost three times your income. I confess I am surprised it is so little. Four thousand. Resign the living, and I will give you four thousand."

Wickham gasped. "That would only leave me two thousand. And the living is worth at least ten thousand. I see you wish me gone, and I understand. But I'll not let you rob me."

"I doubt I could sell it for more than eight thousand. Not on short notice."

"Then give me that. I'll resign it for eight thousand."

Darcy glared coldly at Wickham, who uncomfortably looked away. "Admit it, Fitz," he said. "Eight thousand is not too much for you to give me."

"Do you really think this Mr. Corbin will have you murdered if you don't pay back the debt?"

Wickham shook his head. "Most likely not. I have managed to pay him a little, and he would get nothing further if I died. I am not as desperate as you think."

"This is not a negotiation." Darcy smiled at Wickham like a predatory animal. He generally disliked disguise, but lying about how far he would go to Wickham was permissible. Darcy remembered how useful it had been to terrify Mr. Collins. He intentionally remembered the jealousy he'd felt and the anger at seeing Wickham's lips on Elizabeth's. Suddenly Darcy felt truly enraged at this creature who sought to use and hurt his Lizzy.

He brought his fist down on the desk with a bang. "You kissed my wife — I want you dead. Your Mr. Corbin would kill you for four thousand, I am sure. I will have the living empty for that sum, one way or the other."

Wickham had shrunk back, and he stared at Darcy in fear.

Darcy growled at him, and Wickham jumped. Suddenly his tan pants sported a wet spot. Darcy forced himself to remain angry even though a combination of pity and hilarity was bubbling in the back of his mind.

"I'll accept it. I'll accept it. Just don't murder me."

"Excellent. I'll have you file your resignation immediately. Also, if you ever seek revenge against me, I will kill you. Now get out of here. You shall regret it if I ever see you again."

Darcy stared at the chair Wickham had sat in. He sighed. There was a small damp spot. It should be cleaned thoroughly before it was ever used again. Darcy found he did not feel comfortable with what he had just done. Threatening to have the man murdered to save several thousand pounds was not gentlemanly or Christian. Darcy rubbed his face. Wickham had tried to seduce his wife; such an affront to his honor would have left him entirely in his rights to challenge Wickham and shoot him in a duel. Maybe he should give Wickham the full eight thousand anyways.

Except it was Wickham.

Elizabeth rushed into the room with her mass of curls floating about her cheeks, and her pretty lips turned into a frown. "I do hope you are not bothered that I sent Mr. Wickham towards you, but he was becoming a pest, and I thought you might like to tell him off yourself, and—"

"Don't sit there."

Darcy's warning came too late and he jumped around the desk to pull Elizabeth to her feet. "He was sitting there."

She said laughingly, "Now, that is excessive."

"No it is not that. I scared him enough that he relieved himself."

"Oh." She saw the damp spot on the velvet cover of the chair, and then her hand automatically and thoughtlessly went back to feel the bottom of her gown. She then flinched her hand away and stared at it in disgust. "Now I must wash my hands thoroughly, change my dress and take a bath. What did you say to him?"

"I suggested I might pay the man he borrowed money from to kill him."

"Oh. That was not kind. He probably believed you." She stuck her hand out to Darcy. "Would you walk me back to our rooms?"

Darcy held up his hands, keeping them far away from Lizzy. "Certainly, my love, and I would happily hold your other hand."

She maturely stuck her tongue out at him. Darcy rang the bell and told the servant who replied that the chair needed to be thoroughly and carefully cleaned.

As he walked upstairs with Lizzy, he told her, "Wickham has resigned the living for four thousand pounds."

Elizabeth nibbled at her lip. "That is not much money. Ah — I understand the purpose of your threat."

"I feel rather guilty. It is not right to do that, even to Mr. Wickham. Should I give him the full value of the living?"

"To Mr. Wickham! Heavens, no! I'd as soon give my mother or Mr. Collins a fortune."

"It does not seem right to benefit from such a trick. When I threatened Mr. Collins he deserved it. I accept your feelings, but for my part, I'd far sooner give Wickham a fortune than your cousin."

They had entered Elizabeth's dressing room, and she gestured for him to start undoing the buttons along the back of her dress, as she vigorously scrubbed her hands with the strong soap next to the washbasin. Darcy had become quite adept at removing Lizzy's clothing, though this was the first time he was doing so without a rather different purpose in mind. However, he decided, there was no need for Lizzy to be in any hurry to put on her next dress.

"You threatened Mr. Collins? Why have I not heard the story?"

"It is not a comfortable thing. I was enraged when I met him, much like the day at my uncle's, but I had enough sanity left to think that it might be useful if he believed I could easily snap and murder him. He deserved it, and it was not completely a pretense. After receiving your letter…I would have murdered him if it was the only way to rescue you."

Elizabeth's dress slid down and she turned around in her pretty chemise and petticoats and kissed him expertly. "Of course you would have. My hero."

Darcy sighed and pulled her against him, feeling her steady heartbeat against his.

She said, "Give Mr. Painter the living. You know he would never afford a living on his own, but he is exactly the sort of man who should be a vicar. Then we will not gain any money from your unkind treatment of Wickham, and the people around us will benefit."

Darcy kissed her again, and the kiss grew deeper. He slid the straps of her chemise off her shoulders. Darcy said as he helped Lizzy out of the last of her clothes, while she undid his cravat, "That is an excellent plan.


	31. Chapter 31

March 1786

Pemberley, Derbyshire

Elizabeth sat next to Darcy around the small dinner table they used as it was just the two of them. They had only returned from their nine-month long trip the previous day, and Elizabeth had spent the entire day talking to Mr. Painter about the happenings in the parish and calling upon her friends among the tenants.

Mrs. Reynolds and the rest of the staff had been far more enthusiastic about her return than they had been upon her initial arrival. During the month before they left, when she and Darcy suddenly began behaving like silly newlyweds who could not keep their hands off each other, Mrs. Reynolds had warmed to her enormously.

It had been a perfect trip as they traveled as a pair of happy lovers. They saw everything they'd remembered admiring, and then they saw new ruins and museums and palaces and beaches and mountains and so many other things.

Richard had been attached to their embassy in Prussia, and they spent two weeks visiting him in Berlin. When they returned to England, they spent a month visiting other men who had been imprisoned with Fitzwilliam. They all had been kind, and their wives had fully accepted her. It shouldn't have meant so much, but it did. She also saw Lydia and Kitty when they visited the Gardiners while her sisters stayed with her aunt and uncle for a month. They had grown up so much. Kitty had come out and was full of stories of her dances and her favorite beaus. However, Elizabeth could tell there was one gentleman she particularly liked, but Kitty wouldn't tell Elizabeth who it was.

Darcy's friend Bingley had been especially kind, and they had attended his wedding to a woman who looked startlingly similar to Jane. Elizabeth now had half a dozen friendly correspondents who she could look forward to visiting with someday. The only sadness left in her life was that Georgiana was still separated from her. Also she had shown no sign of pregnancy despite many months of very frequent attempts. But neither was a matter over which she had any control, so Elizabeth was not unhappy about them.

Before serving them, Mrs. Reynolds brought a tray full of cards and set it down, half nervously and half pleased. While she was out visiting the tenants, all of the gentry families of the neighborhood had called. Elizabeth shuffled through the fine heavy squares of paper, glancing at the names.

Something had changed in the neighborhood during their absence. Elizabeth filled a hand with the cards and then let them slip back onto the tray, one by one.

Fitzwilliam pulled his chair around the table, so that he could look at the cards himself. "They at last called."

"It appears so."

"We don't need a crowd of useless fools who only now can recognize your goodness."

"I wonder. I suspect the men you hired to shoot any dogs that strayed across our land during the hunting season may have more to do it with it than any recognition of my goodness."

"That's not enough, certainly not alone. It was the women's choice to exclude you."

"Yes. And the reasonable sex would not be bothered by the interruption to their husband's game. Mr. Painter is fond of me. Likely he filled the neighborhood with my praises while we were gone."

Elizabeth thought Mr. Painter's praise was half the explanation, and the gentlemen's hope to ride across Pemberley next season was the other half. But she wasn't going to worry about why the neighborhood had changed its mind.

Elizabeth gathered the pile of cards back into her hand, and once again let them slip out of her fingers. So, the neighborhood had decided she was not the fortune hunter Mr. Allen had claimed. It mattered far less to Elizabeth now than it would have once.

"We truly do not need to meet them. Estate business with my neighbors can be managed through the stewards, and—"

"Fitzwilliam, you are the one who wants to maintain a perpetual feud with the entire neighborhood, not me."

Darcy grimaced and then shrugged. "Even if they are fools, maybe they are better company than no one. Maintaining a permanent feud 'tis a pretty thought though."

Elizabeth laughed and grabbed Darcy's hand to squeeze. "You are not nearly the misanthrope you pretend."

Darcy grinned back at her. His smile let the bother of the whole thing fade away. She did want to have cordial relations with her neighbors, and perhaps she might become true friends with a few. They may have scorned her, but they had never betrayed her.

"I shall wait a day or three before I return the calls. A little pettiness is needed to show I am not desperate for their company." Elizabeth shuffled through the cards again, reading each name. "Here, look at these and tell me about the families."

"I hardly know most of them anymore. Oh, Mrs. Brent. I remember thinking her quite pretty when she arrived at Fitts Abbey. Not a sensible woman. Obsessed with her hats." Darcy shook his head, smiling at Elizabeth. "I cannot recall the details, but it was a matter of feathers versus fruit or flowers. She talked for a full quarter of an hour on the subject while I nodded and wished I was elsewhere."

Elizabeth giggled and patted Darcy on the forearm. The quirk in his eyebrow that showed he was trying to be silly was adorable. "You poor, poor dear. Fortunately, you have me to protect you from such horrid conversations now. Though if you continue in such a manner, I shall begin to suspect you are the misanthrope you pretend to be."

"You, my dear, are the one who insists it is a pretense." He put the cards down and said, "I will say what I remember about our neighbors, but my intelligence is five years out of date. Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Painter can tell us what there is to know. Also, I insist upon going with you for the first calls. Everyone shall know you have my complete confidence, and that no insult, veiled or otherwise, will go unanswered. Despite the events of the past year, the name of Darcy has some meaning here yet."

He looked quite manly and firm as he said that and sat straighter. Elizabeth smiled warmly and kissed her husband on the cheek, and then the mouth. "My brave hero."

Darcy smiled sloppily at her, his unscarred cheek dimpling. "I shall take my sword with me, and perhaps wear my old uniform. And I will stroke the grip of the sword whenever I am unhappy about the course of the conversation."

"You mean when I am happily discussing the matter of how to decorate a hat? Just because I can speak Latin and do not bother you with such matters does not mean that I am not still a woman."

The only word to describe the look Fitzwilliam gave her was a leer. A heated, passionate leer. "Oh, my dear, I know you are a woman."

Elizabeth blushed, bit her lip, and smiled back. Perhaps they should forget about dinner and just go to bed. Or maybe, now that they were in their own house again, they could lock the doors to the dining room, or go to the study and lock the doors there, or the library, or… Elizabeth kissed Fitzwilliam.

"Much as I love your sword, perhaps it should stay home. The ladies would become jealous. To say nothing of the gentlemen who lack such a weapon."

Fitzwilliam pushed his chair back and pulled Elizabeth onto his lap. "We should decide just how best for me to glower at them later." He kissed her heatedly.

Elizabeth quickly became well liked among their neighbors. Darcy was the richest gentleman in the vicinity by a large margin, and Elizabeth was charming and fashionably dressed in an expensive wardrobe she purchased in Paris. Besides the praise of Mr. Painter, Elizabeth learned an officer who had been with Darcy in the dungeons of Mysore was the brother of one of her neighbors. After Captain Porter met Elizabeth last month, he'd sent a letter demanding his sister treat properly the wife of his comrade.

There were of course no invitations from the great establishments of Chatsworth, Matlock and Derby. The earls and the duke of Devonshire were present in London for the season in any case. However, all of the lesser gentry for five miles round paid court to the Darcys.

Elizabeth kept a certain distance from everyone she met. It was not anger at how she had been misjudged, at least she did not think so. Instead she distrusted intimate friendships. Charlotte and Jane had completely betrayed her. She did not want to expose her deepest feelings to anyone but Fitzwilliam.

Fitzwilliam comfortably tolerated the increase in social engagements, and even enjoyed occasional games and afternoons with the other gentlemen of the neighborhood. However, his inclination was not to entertain too often, and Elizabeth found that she did not like sharing him too often with other people. Their year of marriage had made them constant companions, and Elizabeth did not feel a great need for other people.

She missed Georgiana more and more. It was as though friendship with other women, many of whom knew Georgiana, made her recall that there was one other girl she could trust. Each year that Fitzwilliam was gone, she had celebrated her birthday with Georgiana, as it came a few weeks after the end of Georgie's school term. As the date came closer, Elizabeth couldn't stop worrying about Georgie.

Darcy and Elizabeth regularly wrote short letters to Georgiana and all of the Fitzwilliam family, but no response was ever received. They were sure Georgiana never saw any letter they sent, and as a result kept in lengthy notebooks collections of letters that they would give to her when they at last had the chance.

Elizabeth believed Georgie missed her even more than she missed Georgie. After all Elizabeth's life was fuller and happier than it ever could have been before, while Georgiana had never been close to anyone at her school.

The previous year Elizabeth's birthday arrived right after she and Fitzwilliam became truly husband and wife. She had been so ridiculously happy then that it was impossible to notice any other feeling. She still was ridiculously happy, but the novelty had worn off far enough that it was possible to think about something else.

Fitzwilliam noticed her unusual melancholy one night, and he asked her about it as he brushed his long fingers through her hair. He'd been tense all evening while they hosted a dinner for several other families, and Elizabeth thought he wanted to comfort her before giving some unpleasant news he'd received.

"It will be my birthday in just a week. Georgie was always there. I miss her and worry about her. She never was easy with the girls at her school, and she may be horribly lonely, while we are so happy. She should be with us."

Fitzwilliam kissed her hair and paused to breathe in her fragrance. Elizabeth snuggled more tightly against the warm comfortable body of her husband. "I miss her too."

"I wish there were anything we could do, to just talk to her and give her the letters. She should know we have kept thinking about her."

"Perhaps… I have an idea. I am not sure if it is a good one, but…" Elizabeth felt a small shrug go through his body. "I did not have a chance to show it to you, since we were at Mrs. Lyden's and then we had to quickly dress to dine, but the man I hired to find out how my uncle is treating Georgie sent his report at last."

From Fitzwilliam's tone, Elizabeth knew that he was unhappy. Richard had written them that he would be back in London very soon, but since he had left for his foreign posting they had been able to receive no in person news about Georgiana's welfare. Elizabeth rolled over to rest on Fitzwilliam's chest and looked anxiously into his eyes. "What is it?"

"They hired a companion, a Mrs. Younge, and rented a house for Georgie to spend the summer in Ramsgate. This companion is lax and purchasable. She has allowed, for money, a gentleman by the name of Candlebacon to dangle about Georgie."

It was inappropriate to the occasion, but Elizabeth interrupted Darcy's somber recital with an uncontrollable giggle. "Candlebacon?"

Fitzwilliam smiled at her and said in a dry tone, "My man suspects it may be a pseudonym."

"Lord, no! I hope not. I would think very ill of anyone who chose that as a pseudonym. The only excuse for a man to admit to being named Candlebacon is the pride of birth."

"I already think very ill of him. The maid my man talked to is quite sure he gave Mrs. Younge a substantial sum before he was allowed to speak with Georgiana."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "But she is too young to marry."

"Our sister has been fifteen for half a year."

"Oh, yes." Elizabeth felt oddly like crying.

Fitzwilliam pulled her head forward and kissed her. "It tormented me in the prison the way I missed so much of your and Georgie's life. That time stole something precious from me."

"You think we should visit her ourselves to see this companion and send off the gentleman?"

"Yes. At first I only thought I should send some word to my uncle. But according to the servants my man talked to, Georgiana is extremely angry at Matlock, and I do not know how he would respond to a letter from me. If Richard has already returned, he would do whatever is necessary, but I do not know how long he will be delayed in his travels. If Matlock shows up alone, I fear Georgie might do something…precipitous. In the little time I had this afternoon to think, I began to fear anything I wrote might make matters worse."

Elizabeth felt a cold jolt. "You are worried she might be convinced into an elopement. Oh! Why is your uncle so lax?"

Darcy grimaced.

"But wouldn't going ourselves to see Georgiana make matters even worse with your uncle? Might they restrict Georgiana even further?"

"I hope they watch her closer after this. But I don't think it can make matters worse than they are presently. I shall send a letter anonymously to my uncle, as he probably just burns correspondence from Pemberley, but we can arrive before he would receive a letter if we leave tomorrow morning and have four horses hired the whole way."

"We will certainly go. And then I must write my apologies to everyone." With a sudden burst of energy, Elizabeth stood up and grabbed the candleholder near the bed. She took her dressing robe that was hung next to the bed and pulled it over her shoulders.

Fitzwilliam followed her to the desk in her sitting room, and while Elizabeth quickly penned a long series of notes to their neighbors, he wrote a much shorter note for Mrs. Reynolds and another for his steward. He then went downstairs holding up a candleholder, saying, "We shall certainly take Tomlinson with us. He will be useful if Candlebacon proves to be a problem."

While Fitzwilliam made preparations for them to leave the next day, waking up as few servants as he could, Elizabeth plopped the brass candleholder next to her bed and read the clean, widely spaced handwriting of Darcy's investigator. Because she was always kind to them, Georgiana was well liked by the staff at the house taken in Ramsgate, but amongst the neighborhood she was thought to be proud and distant as she rarely talked to people and was quite cold with new acquaintances.

Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. Georgiana had always been like Fitzwilliam and needed help to be pushed to be friendly.

Mr. Candlebacon was not liked by the servants, and he did not associate with most of the gentry in Ramsgate, however, he frequented the gambling houses. He was a handsome, dark-haired, dandyish man of about thirty. The description made Elizabeth's mind wander to Mr. Wickham, and she suddenly felt the first stab of actual fear for Georgiana.

There were horrible predatory men, and Georgiana was unprotected.

Fitzwilliam reentered the room. "Everything is ready. We can leave within an hour of dawn tomorrow." He blew the candles out and slid next to Elizabeth, pulling her close to him. "We should sleep. You know how tiring long carriage journeys can be."

Elizabeth nodded and snuggled against his body, but she could not sleep, though Darcy's breathing slowed into an even pace. He had always been able to sleep so much easier than her. It was comforting to be ensconced in his arms, but Elizabeth's eyes stared into the blankness as she imagined someone like Wickham trying to seduce Georgiana.

An odd thought crossed her mind. Wick turned into Candle and ham turned into bacon. Wickham to Candlebacon. No — Wickham wouldn't rename himself Candlebacon. It was a completely different vicious gentleman. Everything would turn out well, and Lord Matlock would realize due to their help that they truly cared for Georgiana, and he would at least let her correspond with Georgie.

Elizabeth slowly drifted to sleep, lulled by the sound of Fitzwilliam's breathing.

After their journeys on the continent, Elizabeth and Darcy were familiar with daylong carriage journeys, and the next morning they quickly settled into the routine of conversations, games, making up stories about the scenery, and taking brisk walks every time the carriage stopped to change the horses.

However, there was an edge of nervousness as the day wound on that was completely novel. The more Elizabeth thought about it, the more she worried. Elizabeth strongly suspected Georgiana might listen to a fortune hunter's offer, simply to disoblige her uncle, and Elizabeth knew that she had none of the intense pride of place that would make her instantly despise the hand of a poor man.

She was so young, and Elizabeth hadn't had a chance to talk to her or advise her since her own marriage.

For the first hour of the journey the landscape was the familiar Derbyshire countryside. Slowly the subtle changes in the trees and lay of the landscape showed that they were in the southern part of the county. Shortly after they crossed into Nottingham they met the Great North Road which ran through York between Edinburgh and London. The traffic on the busy roadway forced them to slow a little, but the well-maintained road meant the journey became much more comfortable as the jolts smoothed out. It was a warm comfortable summer day, and the length of the afternoon allowed them to travel for hour after hour.

Still, when late in the afternoon they made the last stop to change their horses before stopping for the evening after another hour or so of travel, Elizabeth felt ragged, and her back hurt. This posting station did not have fresh horses, so Fitzwilliam went to talk to the stationmaster to see if his arguments and offers of money might be more effective than those of their outrider.

Elizabeth smiled as Fitzwilliam went into the hot stuffy room to wait. She certainly was not going to give up the opportunity for an extra-long walk about. So with Sarah for company and extra safety in the crowded and loud yard, Elizabeth circled the clump of buildings that made up the horse yards and the inn and the cottages of the men who worked there. It was a neat little village.

As Elizabeth walked back towards their carriage to see if Darcy had had any luck, she rubbed at her chin nervously. Neither of them had said it, but both worried that Candlebacon would convince Georgie to elope and they would unknowingly pass her carriage headed north to Scotland. Maybe they already had.

As they crossed the line of other carriages becalmed by the lack of new horses, Sarah suddenly grabbed Elizabeth's arm and snarled, "That's Mr. Wickham."

It was. Elizabeth stared in surprise at the handsome man, still wearing a clerical collar, who was in the process of sniffing a pinch of snuff off of his thumb. When he dropped his hand and looked up, snuffling, he saw Elizabeth and Sarah staring at him.

Mr. Wickham blanched, and he looked through the window into the interior of the carriage he was seated next to, and then looked anxiously back at Elizabeth. He looked at the front of his carriage. There were no horses hitched up to his carriage, and no coachman nearby.

With an angry growl Elizabeth marched towards him, and her suspicion that he had changed his name to Candlebacon returned. Seeing her approach, he glanced through the window of the carriage once more and tottered forward. He said quietly, his eyes darting wildly about the yard, "Mrs. Darcy, how surprising to see you. Is your husband here?"

Elizabeth's later explanation was that anxiety and fatigue had made her irritable and snappish. Without letting him say anything else, and in full view of the people around her, she slapped him full on the face.

Even though the blow was slightly softened by the thin cotton gloves she was wearing, Elizabeth bit her lip and wrung her hand as it smarted from the blow. But she had left a delightful handprint on his face. Elizabeth smirked at his glower. She had missed the opportunity to do that the day he kissed her, and she was glad it had not turned out to be a permanent loss.

She looked past Wickham and saw a tall blonde girl climb out of Wickham's carriage. The girl stared at her with wide eyes. Behind her Fitzwilliam hurried up the road glaring at Wickham. With a startled smile Elizabeth realized the girl was Georgiana, just grown tall and womanly. Wickham turned around to follow Elizabeth's gaze, and seeing Fitzwilliam's thundercloud expression, he took off towards the village at a run.


	32. Chapter 32

After ten minutes of bothering the station master, Darcy gave up and went to the roadside. He quickly caught a traveler with fairly fresh horses passing along the road, and for a ten-pound note the man was willing to trade horses. Darcy gave the postilions who managed the horses that had been hired from the station five miles up the road a guinea a piece to ignore the irregularity.

While the new horses were hitched, Darcy walked out towards the line of carriages to circle the village in what he thought was the opposite direction from the one Elizabeth took. Ever since he'd received the report about Georgiana, he'd felt quite tense, and now the delay had left him irritable, and he'd given the annoying traveler he'd stopped substantially more than what the favor was worth, just so he did not need to speak with him.

There was in Darcy's brain something that presaged one of his old spells of anger. They had become rare of late, and he wanted to find Lizzy and hold her and beg her to tell him he should not worry. It was in this state of mind that Darcy stumbled to a stop in surprise as he saw a gentleman he could almost swear was Mr. Wickham walking towards Elizabeth.

Darcy blinked with the thought that it was quite unlikely that they would encounter Mr. Wickham by chance, and he rather believed Wickham would avoid contact with both him and Elizabeth. Darcy started forward as he became more sure it was Wickham. The gentleman stopped to speak to Elizabeth. Her hand went wide, and in a broad gesture she gave him a ringing slap, whose crack echoed through the yard.

With a growl that he would impose on Lizzy again, Darcy started forward towards Wickham. Wickham saw him and ran towards the village. Darcy turned behind him to Tomlinson who was following him and pointed towards Wickham's fleeing form. With a half salute Tomlinson set off after the scoundrel.

Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, who stared at a tall, richly, though not fashionably, dressed young girl who stood half exited from a carriage staring back at Elizabeth. Then with a sudden movement, the two women rushed together and threw their arms around each other, and Darcy realized it was Georgiana, now grown into a woman's figure. With a long shuddering sigh, Darcy scratched his hand against his scar, and he felt weak with relief. They were still hundreds of miles south of the Scottish border.

His sister was safe from Wickham — from Mr. Candlebacon.

Darcy joined the two women.

Elizabeth squeezed Georgiana tight and exclaimed repeatedly, "Oh you are so tall. So grown up looking. So tall. I can't believe you've grown so tall. You are so much taller than me now."

They both cried openly, and Darcy wrapped his arms around both of them. The missing member of his family was together with them again. Lizzy looked so happy through her tears, and Darcy felt waves of emotion go through his throat, and only the awareness that they were in broad public view kept him from crying himself. He might cry when it was just him and Elizabeth tonight.

They stood together, with their arms around each other, heedless of the spectacle that they must be making. Elizabeth and Georgiana made repeated incoherent exclamations of how much they had missed each other. But then Georgiana drew back from them and said in a flat voice, "Mr. Wickham — he is not your friend anymore. He lied to me, did he not?"

Darcy felt sick at the thought that the horrible villain had broken his sister's heart.

Elizabeth pulled Georgiana's head down, and kissed her forehead. "He did, my dear sister. Do not break your heart over him — he is not—"

"Since I won't be married, I'll have to return to my uncle." Georgiana's mouth turned down in a depressed grimace. "I won't see either of you again for years and years. I've missed you so, so much, Lizzy. I've been so lonely, and miserable, and everyone said such horrible things about you, and I've refused to speak to any of them until they apologize, and no one ever apologized, and I've refused to talk to Uncle Matlock, except I did to beg not to go back to school next year, and Richard convinced Uncle to say I could stay with Mrs. Younge. But I still missed you so much. And when I saw Wickham…I thought it would be such a happy thing to be living just a few minutes' walk from you."

She began to cry.

Elizabeth hugged her tightly. "We are never far apart. Remember how we became sisters and agreed to always be in each other's heart? I have thought about you almost every day. And we are able to see each other right now at least."

Darcy was considerably relieved by Georgiana's speech. It was obvious from how she spoke that his sister's ill-considered attempt at an elopement was not motivated by some great passion for Mr. Wickham. He felt awkward, and he did not know what to say to Georgiana. He had not seen her for more than a week's time in the last six years, and while she had sent him letters that he'd read on the return from India, there was a great deal of difference between a girl of almost sixteen and one younger than fourteen.

The way Elizabeth and Georgiana clung together showed their intimacy had not been attenuated by the year's separation.

He pushed the two towards the inn, and while Elizabeth and Georgiana questioned each other about the past year, he hired a pair of rooms with a private parlor between them. It was a fine suite of rooms. This was a large inn along one of the busiest roads in England, and used to hosting fine guests. The parlor had an elaborately laid out table in the middle, with a rich white silk tablecloth, a pair of silver candleholders, and a fine freshly cut arrangement of flowers. There was a large fireplace, which would make the parlor snug and cozy for travelers trapped during a winter storm, and a large landscape painting above it.

The three sat around the table, all holding hands. Lizzy knew the names of all Georgiana's school companions, and questioned her about them. Georgiana's responses showed she had been miserable at the school with no friends left after the scandal of his marriage and duel. Why hadn't Matlock done something at least last Christmas?

Tomlinson entered the parlor and shook his head. "Sorry, sir. When he got into the village, Wickham hired a horse off of someone and took off at a gallop. He was headed north, but that means nothing. He could go quite anywhere."

"Yes." Darcy was not sure if he really wanted to catch Mr. Wickham. After that last meeting, even if he had been willing to risk Darcy's wrath again for Georgiana's fortune, he probably would not spread the story of the aborted elopement around for spite.

He then closed his eyes with worry. He needed to know if Wickham had taken Georgiana's virtue.

If he had, he would see the man dead.

Darcy gripped his fists tightly together and clenched his jaw. Elizabeth instinctively took his hand and said quietly, "It doesn't matter. It is fine. He can flee as he wishes. The important thing is that Georgie is safe from him."

Georgiana cried, "I was so horrible. So horrible. I was stupid. I believed he was your friend. He knew about our letters to Fitzwilliam and about how we met and all sorts of things. And he said he was sure you two would approve as he is the vicar at Kympton, and…and…I should have known it was too good to be true, and I do know it is wrong to engage in an elopement, and that everyone would despise me for it, but everyone despises you, Lizzy, and you are the best person in the whole, entire world, and… I'm so…so…so…"

Elizabeth hugged Georgiana again with her left arm, without letting go of his hand. Fitzwilliam forced himself to relax. He concentrated on the feeling of Lizzy's hand and the memory of holding her in his arms last night.

Darcy looked at Elizabeth. "I need to know… that is…" He blushed and looked pleadingly into her eyes, hoping she would understand and find a way to ask Georgie.

Elizabeth nodded and when Georgiana wiped her eyes, Elizabeth said quietly, "We must know if Wickham did anything to you…what liberties he took with you."

"Oh. He just kissed me. It did feel very good, but…at least I think he just kissed me. You cannot become with child from kisses? I believed you could not."

"You cannot."

Georgiana's eyes were wide and uncertain. "Are you certain you cannot? I am not sure. I've never been told. Oh! That would ruin everything even worse. What if he did something which…"

Elizabeth patted Georgiana's arm, and then with a mischievous smirk she leaned over to whisper into Georgiana's ear. Georgiana's eyes popped open and she recoiled from Elizabeth, shaking her head frantically. "No, no, no, no! He did nothing, nothing, like that!"

She stared at Lizzy with a horrified expression.

Elizabeth smiled back amiably and patted Georgiana's hand. She turned to Darcy. "No worries on that score."

Darcy felt amusement combined with relief at Georgiana's obvious revulsion towards whatever Lizzy had described to her about the marital act. With a dry voice he said, "I am glad to hear it. Thank you, Lizzy, I am pleased I did not need to ask the question."

Georgiana turned towards him with an even more horrified expression. Then her expression relaxed, and she said slyly, "Are you teasing me?"

"A little." Both Darcy and Lizzy grinned at her.

Elizabeth said, "Do not feel so guilty about being fooled by Wickham. For a little more than a month I considered him a dear friend until he revealed his true character to me. He is no longer our clergyman though; he resigned the living in exchange for money to pay of some debts. So I suspect everything he told you was false."

"Oh." Georgiana stared at the flowers embroidered into the tablecloth. "I was such a fool. And it was romantic, and I did like kissing him…though what you said—" She looked between them with a now disgusted expression. "Maybe" — she blushed — "maybe I ought not marry ever."

Darcy was very, very glad it would be Elizabeth's place to have all such discussions with his sister.

Elizabeth nodded her head agreeably, "Not for another few years at least. Even though kissing can be very pleasant." So saying she hooked her foot around Darcy's ankle.

Darcy said, "Can you two have this conversation when I am not present?"

Elizabeth laughed and rubbed her foot further up his leg. Georgiana looked curiously at them, and Darcy said exasperatedly, "Don't do that in front of Georgie."

"Do what, dear?"

Darcy groaned, and Georgiana asked naively, "What are you doing?"

"We will talk about it when he isn't here. The poor dear is quite right to ask that. He has sensitive feelings."

"Oh." Georgiana blushed. Darcy suspected Elizabeth intentionally wanted to give Georgiana a vivid picture of what she thought wedded bliss should look like, and that such matters as delicacy and shame must be ignored because she might only have a day or two with her sister.

He needed to find a way to keep them from being separated again.

Most of the conversation over the next half hour was carried between Lizzy and Georgiana as they asked each other rapid questions. Elizabeth suddenly stopped describing the piano concert played by Mozart they'd seen during the trip to the continent trip to exclaim, "We have gifts for you! Piles and piles of letters. A dozen notebooks full. I wrote a long description of every detail that night. I knew you would be so very interested. We've both written regularly to you."

"You have!" Georgiana glowed and clapped. She jumped with girlish enthusiasm in her chair. "I've been writing letters to both of you as well. Like we wrote to Fitzwilliam."

"I thought you might." Elizabeth smiled.

Elizabeth rang the bell and asked Sarah to retrieve their letters from the trunks and also to find the packets in the trunk of Georgiana's they'd pulled from Wickham's carriage.

Georgiana asked, "Do you always carry the letters with you?"

"It was not entirely by accident that we met you," Darcy replied. "I hired a man to look in on you, not that I imagined our uncle would make such a complete mess of your guardianship, but he never replied to any letter we've sent. My agent said your companion had taken money to let a Mr. Candlebacon sniff around you."

"Mrs. Younge was bribed!" Georgiana exclaimed in anger. "That horrid woman. And I thought all along she was being kind, and she had said such nice things about believing I'd been wronged by Uncle Matlock and my schoolmates." Then Georgiana's face fell. "Of course she was bribed. She was never my friend."

Darcy replied, "I cannot believe Matlock did not do a better job of inquiring after your companion. From what you said, he has kept a close eye on you. I know I would never have hired such a woman."

"Yes. Though he is almost as odious as Uncle Matlock."

Elizabeth said brightly, "I am surprised by Wickham's choice of pseudonym. The idea crossed my mind last night, but I was sure he would have better taste in names than Candlebacon."

Georgiana giggled. "Oh, that was my idea. He wanted to name himself something completely boring and nondescript. Smith or Brown, since he said he couldn't go by his own name or my uncle might find out about him visiting. But I insisted on Candlebacon because I thought it was ever so silly, and he was a good sport about it, and laughed with me." Georgiana's face fell again.

Elizabeth took and squeezed her hand. "He does have excellent address. It is a great pity there his character is so bad, but the more I have learned of him, the worse he has always seemed."

"You did tell him a great deal; you were friends at one time."

"Yes, so you have no reason to feel badly about being deceived in his character, just feel fortunate that nothing amiss happened."

Sarah entered from Georgiana's room and handed Elizabeth the package of letters from Georgiana's trunk, and she gave the stacks of notebooks from Elizabeth and Darcy's trunks to Georgiana.

Georgie's eyes lit up happily. "So much!"

Elizabeth said, "They've served a little like journals for us. But we didn't want you to miss anything of our company."

Georgiana threw her arms around Elizabeth exuberantly and then placed her hand on the stack of bound papers that she'd written. "Most are for both of you, but some of the letters are just for Elizabeth. I know you couldn't answer, but…I wanted advice about…" Georgiana blushed.

Darcy asked, "Ah…just what are in those letters, Georgie?"

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Now I am curious." Darcy grinned at Elizabeth. "I shall use my husbandly authority to demand you show me the letters."

Lizzy grinned back. "I am afraid that to protect your dear sister's privacy I shall be a disobedient wife in this one, and only this one, particular case. Is that all right with you, dear?"

"Of course it is. But only if it will do no good for me to complain. Do not let Georgie know, she may get a poor idea of proper wifely behavior."

The aforementioned sister giggled. "I'd forgotten how much you always tease, Lizzy." Georgie then seized Elizabeth in another tight embrace, and when Darcy pouted, she grabbed him as well. "I so, so wish we could stay together. I love seeing you two."

Darcy replied firmly, "We will stay together. Even if we must flee to the continent until you are of age or married. Your uncle has proven he cannot care for you, and for my part I would not mind going back to that beach in Italy again."

Elizabeth turned in her chair towards him, biting her lip with a thoughtful frown.

Georgiana exclaimed, "Oh, I wish we could — but I know that I will be dragged back to that awful school, and the next year forced to have a season, and I'll never—"

Elizabeth interrupted Georgiana, taking her hand. "He is quite serious, Georgie. We shall if necessary. But we should make some further attempt to come to terms with Lord Matlock first. Surely after this, he will at least allow a correspondence. And I am not so much of an outcast as I was once."

"Yes." Darcy absently rubbed at his cheek again. How best to make his demand to Matlock for Georgiana to live with them? He was not at all sure Matlock would admit this proved he was wrong to have separated them. His uncle could be a proud man.

Elizabeth forcefully pulled his hand back down from his scar. "You know you should not scratch at that."

"Tomorrow I'll ride to Matlock House — Georgie, our uncle is still resident in London?" At her nod Darcy continued, "If I cannot convince him to see reason, we will go immediately to Dover and take a packet boat to Calais, and then be quite out of his range."

Georgiana's eyes glowed. "You mean that? You would live away from Pemberley and everything for me?"

"Of course we will." Elizabeth put her hand on Darcy's knee under the table and squeezed it in thanks. "You are my dearest sister, and we would do everything for you. Besides, beautiful as Pemberley is, I understand winter in Naples is far pleasanter."

Night had nearly fallen, so Darcy left the parlor and found the man who rode ahead of the carriage to prepare things at each stop. He ordered him to go to Dover and leave warning at the posting stations along the way so matters would go easily. His man would charter a boat at Dover, so they would be able to leave almost immediately upon reaching the city.

Then Darcy talked with his coachman to make sure he'd keep the carriage in good form to be ready to leave at any moment. As the horses at the posting station which had been sent off earlier in the day had been returned by their postilions, Darcy hired at full price a quartet of horses that would sit at the station in readiness for being attached to the carriage and used at a moment's notice.

He saw how happy Lizzy was to see Georgiana again. It almost made him jealous of his sister. It had been just him and Lizzy, and he loved the closeness of being her only true confidant. Even their entry into Derbyshire society had not changed that, as Elizabeth had not become intimate with any of the women she met.

Lizzy had said it was difficult to trust anyone but him with her deepest feelings, because of how she'd been betrayed by her friends and family. But Georgiana had been the one close friend who hadn't betrayed her but supported her when she was imprisoned. He could see how he was the outsider in their tight siblinghood, and while he did care for Georgiana very much, that was almost an abstraction.

It was for Elizabeth's sake that he was determined he would find a way to keep Georgiana near them


	33. Chapter 33

Elizabeth's gut roiled with worry the next day.

She had been woken by a nightmare about the day Lord Matlock refused to acknowledge her or allow her to communicate with Georgiana. Fitzwilliam had been so angry that morning.

She clung to Fitzwilliam, waking him so they could quietly make love. She was irrationally terrified something would go wrong, and the end result would be a duel between Lord Matlock and Darcy in which her husband was killed.

As they left the inn's bed, Elizabeth said, "Promise me you won't duel your uncle."

Fitzwilliam blinked. "Where do you get such notions? Of course I will not. Even if there was a reason to, I would not risk myself so."

Tearily, Elizabeth embraced her husband and said, "I am silly, I know, but I am so worried. Georgiana has been even lonelier than I thought she was, and the last time you talked to Lord Matlock everything went wrong, and…and…"

Darcy held Elizabeth and kissed her. "You are not silly. But do not worry. Everything will go right, and then we will all go to Pemberley together and be very, very happy. I promise, Lizzy."

She sniffled and hugged him, and they went into the parlor. Fitzwilliam was in no hurry to leave, and the three took a long lazy breakfast, and then walked about the village several times, talking the whole while. At last about noon, Darcy kissed her goodbye, and he mounted his horse for the five hour ride into London.

After he'd disappeared under a ridge in the road Elizabeth turned to Georgiana who exclaimed, wringing her hands, "Oh, I am so worried."

Elizabeth made herself cheerfully grab her sister's hands, "Nonsense. Everything will go well. Fitzwilliam can manage it all, even your uncle. Now that he is gone we must take advantage to talk about womanly subjects that might bore him."

Georgiana nodded, forcing herself to match Elizabeth's cheerful smile. "Such as your dress. It is so pretty and fashionable." She sighed. "I don't have nearly so good taste, and I hate to ask my aunts for advice. And they are so old."

It was good that Georgiana was willing to be distracted from worry. It would be quite terrible if they had to spend the entire afternoon and at least half of the next day in a miserable state. Elizabeth replied, "I bought all of my current wardrobe in Paris; Marie Antoinette wore a dress just like this when I saw her." Elizabeth laughed. "It is so good to have a distinguishing eye to praise me — Fitzwilliam insists that I look beautiful no matter what I wear. And worse he is quite serious about the matter."

Georgiana giggled. "Terrible of him."

"I have noticed that despite his protestations he is particularly pleased by some dresses, which thus are of course my favorites, but it is quite a problem."

They went arm in arm to walk around the village again, neither wanting to be indoors and forced to sit yet. Georgiana sighed. "I do so hope it will go well."

"Trust Fitzwilliam. I do." Elizabeth realized she did. The nerves she'd felt all day settled. Of course he wouldn't do anything absurd like duel Lord Matlock, and even if Lord Matlock did not listen to reason, the worst that would happen is they would go to France together.

Walking out of the town the two turned into a woodland and walked along a woodsman path growing through the thick coppiced wood. It was full of summer growth and the scent of leaves and buzzing insects was heavy. Seeing that no one else could hear them, Georgiana blushed and said to Elizabeth in a quiet voice, "Is that really what the marital act involves? What you asked about yesterday? Touching there?"

Elizabeth put her arm around Georgiana and whispered back, both embarrassed and wickedly pleased by the question, "Yes."

"But…that sounds so disgusting. It's where you…well isn't it disgusting?"

Elizabeth said cheerfully, "It does sound disgusting."

"Do you and Fitzwilliam really…" Georgiana turned away from Elizabeth, with all of her exposed skin now blushing, and she tried to pull away from Elizabeth, who kept her arm around her.

Elizabeth had always been conscious of her role as Georgina's older friend, and so she felt it was her duty to give her sister the best advice to promote future happiness in marriage. There was an idea that she'd seen in many of the advice manuals she'd read shortly after her marriage that it was best for girls to know nothing about the subject, but the simple fact that Georgiana hadn't been sure that kissing Wickham couldn't give her a child showed the absurdity of that advice.

So with a chirpy smile Elizabeth replied, "We do. Every night, often two or three times. It is very enjoyable… but it would be disgusting with anyone who you didn't love completely and who did not love you completely. There is a reason such a thing should only be done after the most solemn vows of marriage. It is so intimate, and you become so completely close to another person. I have never experienced anything more perfect. It… Georgie, to do such a thing with a man you do not trust inside and out, and without the greatest friendship and affection, then it would be disgusting."

Georgiana looked down. "You mean to say I was foolish to go off with Wickham when I'd not known him for quite three weeks yet. You are right. I know I was not in love with him; I am barely hurt that he tried to use me. I am not even sure if I had a proper infatuation. It was the promise of living next to Pemberley again that drew me more than anything else. But that is not a basis for such trust."

"I imagine Wickham's kisses were also pleasant, and you liked the idea of such an older gentleman with such excellent address claiming to be in love with you, and being admired made you feel grown up and womanly."

"Yes! Exactly." Georgiana said, enthusiastically squeezing Elizabeth's arm and hand, "You are always so wise and understanding! You would never have made such a mistake."

"That is not entirely true."

Georgiana looked sideways at Elizabeth and exclaimed, "Surely not! You could never have admired him, not when you and Fitzwilliam are so perfectly in love — if I loved someone the way you love Fitzwilliam then maybe it would not seem so…gross."

They reached a fork where two paths had been cut into the trees and after a moment of hesitation, Elizabeth led them to the right. "You must never consider marrying unless you love someone very much indeed. But—"

Elizabeth paused; she thought she ought to tell Georgie the story of how Wickham had tried to seduce her, however, how best to tell the story was difficult to say. "Our marriage was so very romantic — Fitzwilliam had fallen desperately in love with me just reading my letters. He was determined to ask for my hand as soon as he saw me no matter what. It had nothing to do with rescuing me at all."

Georgiana shook her head so enthusiastically that her bonnet's ribbon nearly came undone. "I remember how he growled, actually growled, at our uncle when he insulted you after I showed Fitzwilliam your letter the day he came home. And the way he looked when he received your letter. I always hoped you two might marry, you know."

"I did know." Elizabeth smiled at Georgie. Arm in arm they entered a small clearing at the end of the path. It was a pretty little spot, with the sunshine beaming down on a tiny meadow. Several butterflies flapped about, jumping from one flower to another and the sound of birds chirping pleasantly provided a background. They were still in the shade, and the light breeze kept them from being uncomfortably warm.

"Oh, this is so beautiful," Georgiana cried out, and she instinctively ran forward and pulled a wild flower up. She twirled it between her fingers.

Elizabeth pulled out a penknife from her reticule to cut her own little flower. "Do be careful of your gloves, they can be difficult to clean if you get a deep stain from a plant on them."

"You would know that."

"I would," Elizabeth agreed happily. "While our marriage is as romantic as it could possibly be, we were both quite silly fools for the first few months. You see Fitzwilliam thought the only reason I married him so readily was that I was desperate to escape, and he thought I did not like his scar."

"What?" Georgiana exclaimed as she put the flower into her hair. "How absurd. He is quite handsome, though it is an unfortunate scar."

"I will not agree to that. He is twice as handsome with it as he would be without it." Elizabeth waved her hand to the side. "That is not the point. He pretended he was not in love with me, because he thought it would make me happier, and I wasn't yet sufficiently used to his idiocies to see what he was doing."

"Really?" Georgiana grimaced. "That was silly of him. I would have never let him do it if we hadn't been separated."

"One of the many reasons I have needed you this past year."

They grinned happily at each other.

The two girls walked back along the path towards the road to the village again. Elizabeth added, "So you see even clever people can do quite stupid things. When you fall in love and marry, you must never hide how you feel from your husband. If I'd told him that I already loved him, or if he'd told me how he loved me, we would have been completely and deliriously happy, instead of merely happy, four months earlier. And since then complete honesty has served us well."

Georgiana sighed. "I shall never be as happy as you. You are so good, and so is Fitzwilliam."

"Now, do not despair. It will be difficult to find a person for you so wonderful as our Fitzwilliam, but surely there is someone for you."

"But what happened with Wickham? Did he flirt with you?"

"Yes, and because I was so annoyed with how Fitzwilliam refused to let me see how very, very much he liked me, it made me feel better about myself. Then Wickham tried to actually seduce and ruin me. Which is why we despise him. But until the point he revealed his designs, I was mostly charmed — though I confess I also hoped to make Fitzwilliam jealous."

"But you were married! And he is a clergyman."

At the way Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, Georgiana exclaimed. "Someone should shoot him. He is such a terrible man."

As they left the wood and reentered the well-travelled lane, Elizabeth said, "I daresay, someday someone might. He is that sort of man. However, I absolutely refuse for Fitzwilliam to kill any more men for my honor."

After their walk they stayed in their parlor for several hours, taking turns reading the letters they'd written to each other aloud and laughing. Then they took another turn about the village as evening was falling. When that walk was ended, one of the pages at the inn ran up to Elizabeth and pressed a folded note into her hands. She handed him a penny as a tip and automatically opened the paper:

Bring me money, and do not tell your husband anything about it, or else I shall spread the story about your dear sister's elopement and ruination to everyone. Meet me at dawn in the clearing at the end of that woodsman's path you went down today. The clearing is down the fork to the right. Bring as much money as you can lay your hands on. GW

Elizabeth immediately stuffed the note into her reticule.

"What is it?"

Elizabeth forced herself to smile at Georgiana. "Nothing for you to worry about. Don't worry. What should we order for dinner? I wish to try that ragout again, though it is a little elaborate for my taste usually."

Georgiana was eager to talk with Elizabeth, and the two stayed up late talking and playing silly games. Elizabeth pushed her nervousness about Wickham's demand to the back of her mind, and she was the perfect cheerful and happy sister.

But when Georgiana at last went to bed, Elizabeth pulled the note out again and studied it in the light of her candles. She desperately wished Fitzwilliam was here. He would know what to do. She stared and stared at it, her mind wheeling. It was pointless to try to sleep, not without Fitzwilliam with her in bed.

Oh! They should have known Wickham would try something like this. If only Fitzwilliam was here.

Elizabeth made a tight fist with her hands and sat up straight again. She was his wife, and Georgiana was her sister. Even though she desperately wished she could hold him and talk out a plan with her husband, she could act to protect her family on her own when necessary. She would be brave and make the right choice.

That thought made what should be done first obvious. Money was a triviality. She would meet him and pay him off the next morning, and that would be the end. Fitzwilliam would want to find some way to ambush and capture Wickham, but he didn't understand how awful it could be for a woman to have a wrecked reputation. It was better not to risk that.

Elizabeth collected half the roll of bills they carried with them for traveling expenses and placed them into a small bag. It was a large sum. Elizabeth and Darcy had found it was convenient to have much more cash than they needed, as the risk of robbery was not serious with all of the servants who traveled with them.

Three hundred pounds in ready cash to give to Wickham.

That should be enough that he could not possibly expect her to find more without notice in a posting town.

Having collected it and placed the purse with the money on the night stand with the note under it, she blew out the candles and slid into bed to try sleeping.

Wickham would not be satisfied.

It was just the first installment. He would beg, and beg, and beg for more. Georgiana had done nothing wrong. It was Elizabeth's fault that she had told Wickham enough to convince Georgie that they were friends. Georgiana just wanted to be near her and her brother.

She couldn't let Wickham tell the story.

But what could she do, since paying the money would not be enough? Elizabeth felt scared and small, and she pulled the soft, cold pillow that Fitzwilliam should be using to her chest. She pretended it was her husband's arm. But it wasn't. Elizabeth threw the pillow to the side angrily and cried for many minutes, softly stifling her sobs to ensure she did not wake Georgiana.

If only Fitzwilliam was here.

Then Wickham would not have even dared to send the note. Instead he would've gone to London and spitefully whispered the story to every acquaintance he had. Fitzwilliam's presence would not have fixed everything.

But if he were here, she would not feel miserable.

Elizabeth sat up. She could not let herself fall asleep, because she might not wake in time. There was no choice but to pay Wickham right now, even if he would ask more in the future. Fitzwilliam would be with her, and next time he demanded money they would decide together what to do then.

Elizabeth imagined how she would meet Wickham when the morning dawned. At the first hint of light through the window, she would slip out of bed. The servants would be moving about the inn, and her extra noise would not wake anyone. Elizabeth visualized the path she would take around the bed. Then she would swing open her trunk, its well-oiled hinges would stay quiet. She would throw off her nightgown, and leave it piled on the floor for Sarah to clean up later. Then she would pull a petticoat on and then put on her simplest traveling dress.

She would quietly button it, her stockinged feet chilled by the morning cold. Her light spencer would go on over it, and placed into the inner pocket would be the reticule with the three hundred pounds. She would pick up her boots, to put on as soon as she stepped outside. She would be quiet to make sure she didn't wake Georgiana up.

As she walked up the road she would smile at the people going about their daily business, pretending to be an odd girl who had woken early and simply wanted a walk. It was something she had done often enough. She would make her way around through the town, past the brown and white timber-framed buildings, past the garish signs advertising the shops, and then she would turn onto the path and walk towards that pretty clearing.

It would be quiet, still a half-hour too early for the birds to start their morning symphony. There would be a cold sharp edge in the air, quickly dissipating as the sun began to heat the air. Her foot would crack a branch underfoot, and the sudden sound in the stillness would startle her, and she would jump and shiver. She would be scared and wonder what Wickham meant to do.

Did he wish to meet her in such an isolated location to attack or abduct her?

That was absurd. Wickham had broken no serious laws, and he was genuinely frightened of Darcy. If he abducted her, Fitzwilliam would have legal right to kill him. Of course Wickham would not do that, he was a coward, not stupid.

He wanted money — and he would need her cooperation to get more in the future. He intended to keep begging and begging. It would do him no good to harm her. He must know that Fitzwilliam would despise giving him any money.

He might want revenge against them. They had forced him from his living and given him just half its value. And now they had ruined his attempt to run away with an heiress. His anger might overcome his good sense.

Elizabeth shivered, a memory that had not touched her for a year came back, Sir Clement grasping at her breast and pushing his face against hers. Her struggle to get him to loosen his grip.

She would take the gun.

It had been a laugh when Darcy taught her to shoot and bought her a fine lady's pistol.

She would feel safer carrying the gun. It was stored at the bottom of the trunk. When she woke she would pull on the traveling dress as planned. Then she would kneel down and throw all of the dresses in her trunk to the side. Sarah would scold her when she returned from meeting Wickham about the wrinkles she was encouraging.

Then her fingers would touch the small Indiawood box.

She would pull it free from the piled clothes on top, the dark lines in the fine wood would be invisible in the faint light. She would take the key and unlock the case.

Where did she keep that key?

It was in her handbag with the key for her jewelry box and the second key for the trunk. Elizabeth rolled over and placed her feet on the ground, wincing as the inn's bed creaked. Their bed at Pemberley didn't. There was no noise from Georgiana's room.

She let out a long breath.

Elizabeth stood and grabbed the handbag. She walked to the window. It was a half moon. She felt through the bag until she pulled out the small key. Elizabeth squinted at it and confirmed it was the right key.

Elizabeth's stomach squirmed, and she felt so anxious it hurt. The twisting anxiety gave her a sudden need to relieve herself, and she barely found the chamber pot's hiding spot, with the little seat with a round hole cut in the middle and squatted over it in time.

Elizabeth sat for some minutes with her nightgown gathered up around her waist, shivering despite the almost pleasant temperature of the air.

She could not even try to lie back in bed again. She wished to pace and pace, to take an endless walk. But that would wake Georgiana, and she would want to know what was worrying Elizabeth, and Elizabeth didn't want her to ever know they were paying off Wickham. Georgie felt guilty enough as it was. There were at least another three hours till dawn.

Elizabeth wrung her hands helplessly. The messed up sheets and covers of the bed were visible. Beneath the frame of the bed there was a deep black shadow. She would leave the note from Wickham on the table next to the bed so that they would all know where she had gone if she could not return.

Her familiar trunk, wrapped in handsome leather, sat at the foot of the bed next to Fitzwilliam's. Elizabeth should prepare herself.

She opened it, and the oiled hinges made no sound. Her hands shook as she took her nightgown off. She placed the traveling gown over her head. It was impossible to manage to do the small buttons by feel. Her hands were shaking so. She tried a dozen times, and each time her thumbs rubbed uselessly against each other.

It didn't matter, she could button the dress up later.

Elizabeth felt a sick pulse in her gut. As though her heart had moved down six inches and beat wildly.

Her hands felt numb and odd as she pushed aside the clothing and pulled out the case for the gun.

Elizabeth set it on the bed and walked to the windowsill where she had left the key. She stared out, and took long slow breaths. She could not attempt to load it unless she calmed down. As she was now, she might shoot herself.

It was a beautiful starry night with a few holes in the spangled panorama hanging above her where clouds moved between them and the outer universe. The window was open to allow in a cool breeze to help air out the room that had become unpleasantly warm due to the summer heat of the day. Air pulsed past Elizabeth's face, flapping a lock of hair against her forehead.

Long slow breaths.

Fitzwilliam had killed Sir Clement.

Wickham would never be satisfied.

He would demand a huge payment when Georgiana became engaged. And then, once he had the money, just out of spite, he would go to Georgiana's fiancé with the whole story and proof that they had been sending him money for years.

Georgiana's reputation would be ruined the way hers had been. Nobody would ever talk to her. Fitzwilliam was so comfortable with few friends that he did not understand. She needed to protect Georgie.

If Wickham was dead, like Sir Clement was dead… If she killed him…

It was an isolated spot, deep into the wood, where he wished to meet. The forest, with its full growth of leaves would dampen the sound, and no one would be about so early in the dawn to hear the shot. No one would ever connect her to the body when it was found.

Elizabeth shivered. The stars through the window looked cold and unfriendly. She was not thinking this; she was not a murderer.

Fitzwilliam was no murderer — but he had killed. Wickham would hurt Georgiana. This was defense of her family. That was what she would say when they tried her for murder. That it was self-defense.

She had imagined Wickham might try to abduct or rape her. Others would believe that he really had tried. Wickham was known as a desperate man. Darcy and his lawyers, they could find so many witnesses against his character. She did not think — surely a jury would acquit her, like they had acquitted Fitzwilliam.

She recalled a story in the newspaper. A little like this situation. They hung that woman.

Elizabeth's chest froze. Her vivid imagination made her feel the rough threads of the rope against the thin skin of her throat. Pulled tight, so she could barely breathe, the knot against the base of her skull. Impossible to hold her head comfortably. The jeering crowd, come to see a gentlewoman hang.

She felt the painful crack jolt through her as the drop broke her neck. The rough burn beneath her jaw. Pain.

Blackness.

Elizabeth pushed away the idea. She would leave the gun behind. Wickham would not attack her, and she would not attack him. She would simply pay off the blackmailer, and when Fitzwilliam returned, he would find an idea for how to ensure he didn't demand anything else. A matter of reputation was not a cause for murder.

Except it was. That was what duels were about, and duels were murder according to the law.

A phrase rang through Elizabeth's mind, from the speeches of Elizabeth I: I have the stomach of a king, and that a king of England.

It was not only men who would risk much to protect those most precious to them.

Elizabeth took a few more deep breaths. The stars appeared peaceful and beautiful. Wickham was a terrible man, but he did not deserve to die. And if they fled to France, the scandal would be such that anything Wickham might say would be beside the point. She would not even think of killing him.

With that decision Elizabeth's nerves relaxed again. Wickham was not the dangerous person, she was, and he would survive by her kindness. She felt a blissful oneness with everything. She felt intensely — as though she had been until this moment always half-asleep. She was now able to easily button her dress up by feel.

Despite her decision that she should leave the gun behind, Elizabeth unlocked the case of the gun and, following the instructions Darcy had drilled into her, loaded it. She carefully kept the gun's mechanism down so it would not fire accidentally, and she placed it into the right-hand pocket of her spencer. She put the note from Wickham on the side table.

The excuse she gave herself was that it would be safer to take the gun.

She sat cross-legged on their bed, waiting for the time to leave, and she tried not to think anymore. Stabs of anxiety continued to come and go, but they now felt distant


	34. Chapter 34

When Darcy reached London at about 5 o'clock, he had immediately gone to Matlock house, without even stopping at his own home, and demanded to see his uncle. The butler was surprisingly insistent that the master was not presently in London, and after a half hour of arguing with him Darcy had given up and gone to Darcy house. He then set all of his servants to the task of trying to discover by questioning and gossiping with Matlock's servants if it was actually true that Matlock had left.

It was nearing midnight when he at last learned that it was. Early this afternoon Lord Matlock and Colonel Fitzwilliam had suddenly set off to visit Miss Darcy in Ramsgate.

Darcy felt like an idiot. Of course. The anonymous letter he had sent to them. They received it and set off immediately. At least he could say that much for them. And because he'd spent the morning lingering with Lizzy and Georgie, he hadn't arrived in London before his letter, and now they would track Georgiana from Ramsgate and find them at the post station.

He greatly would've preferred for his confrontation with his uncle to take place at a distance of fifty miles from where Georgiana was. Darcy immediately took a post carriage back up the road he'd just traveled down. He barely managed to sleep, and it was just beginning to turn light when he hurried up the stairs to their suite and Lizzy.

As he walked up the stairs he heard banging knocks, and Matlock's voice crying, "By God. Open up or we'll bash the door down."

Darcy hurried up into the second story hallway, and said harshly, "Hello, Uncle."

Both Richard and Lord Matlock had hard faces which turned startled upon seeing him. Richard wore his colonel's uniform and tightly gripped with his right hand the hilt of the saber hanging from his waist. Lord Matlock wore an expensive silk waistcoat and blue jacket. There were four armed footmen in brilliant blue livery with them.

Darcy was very glad to see his cousin here with his father. Richard exclaimed, "Darcy! Wickham convinced Georgie to elope with him. How did you know to be here?"

"I am here because I've rescued my sister from your father's incompetent care." Darcy rubbed his hand over his scar and added, "Georgiana is safe, Wickham ran the instant he saw me." He glared at his uncle. "I will not allow you to separate me from Georgiana again. I had gone to London to speak to you, but I forgot about the letter I'd sent."

"Your letter?" Lord Matlock's tone was completely confused.

"Yes. The anonymous letter you received about how Mrs. Younge, the woman you hired to care for Georgie, allowed a gentleman dangle around her. Why didn't you properly look into your employee?"

Matlock shouted back, "My fault? Wickham is your vicar, this is your plot to regain Georgiana and where is that damned girl. She is a fool just like you for running away, and I'll lock her up and not let her out until she is of age, and you can say nothing about it because I am her guardian and—"

The white hot anger took Darcy for second, and he nearly punched his uncle. He knew he would have to be calm and careful. For Lizzy. She was behind the door, and she had begged him not to fight.

He turned to the door and shouted, "Tomlinson, it is me. Open up."

The bolt was pulled back, and the door was opened. Tomlinson and a footman stood by the door, both holding pistols. Georgiana stood in the back of the room, staring wide-eyed at Lord Matlock.

Where was Lizzy? She must have taken one of her early morning walks. Perhaps it was best given what Matlock thought of Lizzy.

"As you can see Georgiana is well." His sister backed towards the room he and Elizabeth used.

"Darcy, your scheme to have her marry your clergyman has failed. We shall take Georgiana with us immediately." Matlock pushed his way past Tomlinson and held out his arm to grasp Georgiana.

She shrank back from her uncle's grasp and threw open the door to his and Lizzy's room and then slammed the door shut behind her. There was a distinctive clank of the bolt being forced shut.

"You fool!" Perhaps shouting wasn't politic, but it didn't matter since Matlock was determined to be a blockhead. "You devil damned, useless, incompetent failure of a guardian. I am unfit? You took my sister — you took my dearest, darling sister — because I was not fitted to care for her. Because Elizabeth would be a poor role model — because you could do a better job. And then you let Wickham have a chance at her."

"Do not speak to me so!" Matlock shouted.

"Do not let fortune hunters seduce my sister."

"I didn't let him, Mrs. Younge deceived us. He is your clergyman, so this is your fault."

"Wickham is not my clergyman. Useless gambling, seducing, wastrel. He resigned the living in exchange for the four thousand pounds he needed to pay off gambling debts. And you, you damned fool, you hired a companion for my sister who would let that worthless thing seduce her. If not for the barest luck, you would have destroyed my sister's life forever."

Richard was pale, "How did you find her?"

Lord Matlock roared over his son, "I am the Earl of Matlock. I am your uncle — Richard, surely you do not seriously believe his story. Obviously he was in league with his father's godson." He shouted at the door, "Come out, come out. It shall be worse for you if I must bash the door down."

"Father, I received a letter from Wickham three months past — he begged for money on the basis of our prior friendship, and he insulted both Darcy and his wife at great length. I assure you they are not in league. Darcy has rescued Georgiana from a great danger. You know he has."

"I know nothing of the sort."

"Calm down. You do know it. You are just frustrated that Darcy is right. We are all tired and not thinking well." Richard gestured at Darcy. "Let us sit down and talk like rational beings. There is no need for such anger."

Darcy acted almost calm. He was still angry, terribly angry. "I wished to talk all along — I received a message from a friend about Wickham hanging about Georgiana, and we set off immediately. It was Mrs. Darcy who saw Wickham when we stopped at this post station. You shall have to sue me to get possession of Georgiana's person back — for I will not give her up without a fight — and you have proven yourself quite unfit."

Matlock made a placating gesture. "Perhaps I should let you see your sister. Clearly you have learned to control your temper better. Mrs. Darcy though, with her character and reputation she is no fit companion for a girl."

Darcy could tell from the way his uncle peered at him that he wished to see if he would explode in rage at the insult against Elizabeth.

Darcy shook his head. "You are an ass. Say what you want about Mrs. Darcy's reputation, but I'll not allow you to insult her character. But I can control myself now."

Matlock nodded and pulled his hand through his hair.

Everyone was surprised to hear Georgiana remove the bolt and rush back into the room. She held a piece of paper in her extended arm. Georgiana forced the letter into Darcy's hand, and then flung her arms around his waist. "She's gone to him! She's gone to him!"

Darcy heard Richard ask, "What?" as he peered over Darcy's shoulder to read the paper. It was in Wickham's hand.

He had demanded money in exchange for not spreading about the story of Georgiana's elopement. Of course he had.

Georgiana wailed in response to Richard's question, "She's gone to pay him off. He's demanding money so he doesn't ruin me. Oh I should be ruined! What if he does something to Lizzy?"

Lord Matlock snorted. "Why did the fortune hunter not let men handle this. I suspect there must be some arrangement between them?"

Darcy froze when Georgiana suggested Wickham might hurt Elizabeth.

Georgiana stopped clutching Darcy's arm and shouted something at Lord Matlock to defend Elizabeth. Darcy's focus was completely on the paper.

Elizabeth was out there with Wickham.

Once Darcy understood where the meeting was supposed to take place, he gestured at Tomlinson and ran out the door.

It was with a tranquil feeling that Elizabeth stepped out of the inn that morning with the beginning of red streaks from the rising sun gleaming against the clouds.

Elizabeth sat on a bench in the empty area where the horses would be hitched to carriages and carefully tied her boots painfully tight. She then set off with an unhurried walk through the town towards the woods. It was still dim.

Elizabeth's calmness lasted halfway down the central boulevard of the market town. She passed a grocer setting the neat stacks of apples, cabbages and other vegetables out into the display boxes. They were covered by an awning next to the entrance to his store.

He waved a friendly greeting. "An apple for the lady?"

Elizabeth silently shook her head and showed a fake a smile for the man. She passed a few maids going about their early morning chores. A housewife was sweeping the dust away from the front of her house.

She felt as though every eye was aware of the gun, the small gun sitting as a heavy weight in her pocket. Oh, she should have just left it behind.

At the end of the road was the local parish church. It had a tall, gabled steeple. Set out on the gate to the cemetery was a brass plaque that had turned dull with age that bore the Ten Commandments.

Thou shalt not murder.

Wickham had wanted to ruin Georgiana and steal all her money. It was only the barest luck that kept the liar from marrying her dear sister. Wickham was a vicious, heartless, disgusting animal. Now he threatened to hurt Elizabeth's sister again. She had sworn many years ago to always be Georgiana's sibling. He deserved to be shot.

She wished again that she had left the gun behind.

Elizabeth stepped under the trees of the forest, following the woodsman's path to the appointed meeting spot. A line of wet fabric clung to her back from the pouring sweat. She shivered as a stiff breeze blew through the thin summer coat and onto the damp fabric. Elizabeth no longer knew what she was going to do — it would be impossible to see him and calmly hand him three hundred pounds so that he could still spread the story about whenever he decided to.

But she could not kill Wickham. She thought about tossing the pistol on the ground, but her fear that he wished to attack her kept it in her pocket. She would talk to him, and she would beg Wickham to drop his scheme to endlessly blackmail Georgiana. She would ask him to give her some guarantee that he wouldn't before letting him have the money.

Elizabeth stepped on a branch snapping it loudly. In the sudden silence she startled and brought her hand into her pocket. She held the gun, ready to pull it out and shoot whatever phantasm was about to attack her.

After a moment Elizabeth nervously chuckled. It had been imagining such a thing which led her to decide to bring the gun.

Her breath slowed from desperate adrenaline-fueled gasps to an unsteady pant. Elizabeth walked deeper into the forest. The meeting spot was a half-mile out of town. She was surrounded by thick overgrown brambles. Thorn bushes and weeds were dense and impenetrable on either side of the path.

Elizabeth stepped into the clearing, but no one was there.

She gripped the gun tightly in her pocket, frightened. Where was Wickham?

She waited. The birds began to sing. Though a little dark, it was a few minutes past sunrise. Elizabeth panted, her ears straining to hear anything.

From behind her and to the left there was the sound of footsteps, roughly crumpling the bark and brush. Elizabeth spun around and nearly pulled the pistol out as she saw Wickham's form. He was clad in a tail coat and tan breaches, with disarrayed hair, and had a bright, eager look in his eyes.

"Have you the ready? Where is it? You have it."

Elizabeth backed away as he walked towards her. She did not release her right hand from the weapon. She pulled the purse with the three hundred pounds out of her coat with her left hand.

Wickham's eyes lit on it like a starved kitten seeing food. He halted and licked his lips as he stared at the purse, acting almost as though he was frightened the wealth would disappear before his eyes. "If you wish to protect your sister, you shall give me another such packet every quarter. It has two hundred in it, at least?"

Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice. She could feel the sweat; the armpits of her dress were soaked. She was shaking again. There was a weakness in her legs that made it hard to stay upright.

Wickham stepped closer to her.

"Don't!" The startled shrill shriek echoed. She waved the bag in her left hand with the money. "Stay back if you wish this."

The ivory handle of the gun dug into her hand. She didn't want to do this; she didn't think she could. He was a living body, breathing, alive. Thou shalt not murder. The consequence was too serious, there was a block in her mind which absolutely refused her desire to pull the weapon out and fire it.

He held his hands up and stepped back a little startled. She saw his easy smile. The handsome outline of his jaw. "Lizzy, Lizzy. You once liked to have me close. Did you not? You should have let me kiss you." He pursed his lips. "The money is in there — you did not come here just to chatter?"

"It is."

"Well. Let's have it then."

Wickham walked towards Elizabeth again. She nearly flung the gun out her pocket — to use, or maybe to throw away — her tense hand shook it in her pocket, the hilt bouncing against her hip.

"No!"

Elizabeth backed up several steps further, and Wickham stopped once more.

"Lizzy, be reasonable. You are here to give me the money, give it and let's be done."

"I need guarantees. Some guarantee you shall never seek to hurt Georgiana."

Wickham sneered, the line of his lip curling up. "Of course. Mrs. Darcy, you have my word as a gentleman and a clergyman — a man of God — that I would never seek to hurt Georgiana so long as you continue to pay what I am owed."

"How can I know you will not demand more and more?"

"Do not be greedy — do not cavil such small things. You and he have more than enough. Georgiana thinks the world of you — you must know that — she was so delighted to imagine that we would be settled so near to her dear Lizzy. She believes you can do anything. She has made a graven image of you and set it up in her heart to worship. Had I not resigned my office, I would have counseled her quite sternly to not confuse the dirt of creation with" — Wickham pointed his finger at the sky — "Surely you would do anything for such devotion, you would not let her be hurt over a small matter of a few pounds."

"You must — you must make it impossible to hurt her. I can't let you hurt her."

"What do you wish me to do?" Wickham sneered. "This is stupid. You have my word that I shall never ask more than I feel I deserve. Beyond that, you must trust to my goodwill. Which is being sorely tested."

Wickham advanced towards Elizabeth, his hand outstretched to take the purse.

When he reached a man's length away from her, Elizabeth pulled the gun from her pocket.

Darcy jogged through the town. Tomlinson, Richard and his uncle, and their collection of servants followed him. Darcy wished it was only Tomlinson. He had an anxious image of Wickham holding a gun on Elizabeth, and his uncle's foolishness startling him into firing.

She was to meet him in the woods.

Darcy hit the tree line and barely slowed, though the light became dim and the path thin and crowded. The path twisted and turned, roots and grasses grew across it, and he nearly ran his face into a tree. Darcy reached the point where the path split, and he paused, unable to remember or think which way the note said he should go.

Elizabeth was alone with a desperate man. His Lizzy. Think. Move. Pick the right path.

Darcy's eyes darted between the two directions; he should use the letter to read the directions again. Lord Matlock had fallen substantially behind and jogged up breathing heavily. "Nephew, you are be—"

Crack.

A gunshot rang out. It was not far ahead, and Darcy's legs sprang forward towards the sound faster than he had ever moved before. It seemed an eternity as he ran towards it, the entire time he saw a vision of Elizabeth with blood spurting from her chest, dying like one of his comrades in India.

A desperate plea was flung from his soul: Please let her be alive. Please let her be alive.

It was only seconds after the gunshot sounded when Darcy burst into the clearing at full speed. His eyes took in Elizabeth standing, white and pale with her hair hanging wildly about her head, and holding a pistol straight out in a white stiff hand.

Long before his mind could interpret the scene he had thrown himself at Wickham, who stood with a shocked expression and a hand held tight against his side, the linen cuff red with blood. Darcy let loose a huge punch with his thumb wrapped under his fingers as he'd been taught against Wickham's jaw.

The man fell backwards, without losing his grip on his side, but when he fell against it he made a half strangled scream. Darcy tried to kick him in the male parts. Darcy missed, as Wickham scrambled away, and he nailed Wickham's lower thigh instead. Darcy stepped forward and pulled back his leg to kick Wickham again, but Tomlinson stepped in front of him, and pushed Darcy in the chest. Darcy's man gestured behind him.

Elizabeth.

The sound of the other gentlemen arriving meant Wickham would be well handled. As soon as Darcy saw Elizabeth again, he understood what had happened. She had been the one to shoot. Her eyes were wide, and she stared at the location Wickham had stood before Darcy attacked him. Her white fingers had not released the trigger yet. She held the gun pointing out, its tip waving wildly, showing the tremors that went up her arm.

"Oh, Lizzy."

Darcy tried to firmly take the gun from her hand, but her fingers would not release it. He slowly pried her fingers off the white handle of the hilt, and softly placed it on the ground. He met her eyes again, and with a hysterical sob Elizabeth threw herself around Darcy.

He rubbed softly at the back of her neck, pulling his hand over the loose locks of hair. He held his mouth against her ear and whispered comforting promises. Her rigid arms held him so tight he knew she must hurt from it. His other hand rubbed up and down her spine.

"I meant to kill him. I did. I wanted him dead so he could never hurt Georgie."

Darcy kissed her ear. "I love you, Lizzy. I love you."

"Is he dead? Do you think — shall they hang me?"

Dread pooled in Darcy's stomach.

Before he could whisper a vow to flee with her, Tomlinson's calm voice said, "Don't you worry, ma'am. He'll be fine. Just grazed along the side, sliced him open, but it's a flesh wound. We'll get him to a physician. It is small enough that once patched there will be little chance even of infection."

Elizabeth went limp in Darcy's arms. "I'm glad.


	35. Chapter 35

Darcy did not let Elizabeth go while Tomlinson and his cousin pulled Wickham up. He was shaking nearly as hard as Elizabeth had been. His heart hammered. He squeezed her tight against him to feel that his Lizzy was still safe. He couldn't kiss her on the mouth in front of the other men, but he did kiss her hair again and again.

Wickham moaned in pain, and a huge black bruise was forming on his jaw. Darcy realized his hand ached. It was a good feeling.

Elizabeth looked towards Wickham, who exclaimed wide eyed, "You could have killed me! What the damned hell were you doing with that gun? I never imagined you would do something like that."

"Wickham, don't speak. I might kill you yet." Richard snarled. He then turned to Elizabeth and said amiably, "Elizabeth, did you really hope to kill him? Missing everything important from that range…not a good shot."

Elizabeth shuddered. "I don't know what I hoped. I don't know. I'm glad I missed."

Lord Matlock said, "It was a damned fool, womanly thing. If you'd killed him, they might have hung you. Why ever did you shoot him?"

"He'll keep demanding more and more." Elizabeth's voice was suddenly high-pitched. "He'll hurt Georgiana. He will. I couldn't let him. How can we protect her now? How? How?"

Richard walked behind Wickham, while Tomlinson and a footman were on either side. Richard poked Wickham in the back, right next to where the wound was. Wickham let loose a pained moan and clutched his side tighter. "Don't worry. He won't speak. We'll manage him right fine."

A great many people watched them arrive back at the inn, and a physician was called for. Richard and Tomlinson took control of Wickham and placed him in a new private room at the inn. Darcy paid little attention to that, as he guided Elizabeth up the stairs and into their rooms.

He still had not released the tight hold he held around her arms once yet. She was alive, and they would be safe. A growl of anger rose somewhere, now replacing the fear that he still felt. How dare she risk herself? Nothing, no matter of reputation, no matter of money, nothing could ever be worth her safety.

Darcy paused before he opened the door to their suite, and he squeezed Lizzy tight against his chest. He laid his lips against her forehead and breathed in the flowery scent of her hair

Georgiana pulled open the door from inside and threw her arms tight around Elizabeth and Darcy both, making a big three-person embrace, with Elizabeth packed in the middle. "Oh, Lizzy! Lizzy! I was so frightened when I saw that note. Did he attack you?"

Elizabeth was pressed too tight between them to speak, but she shook her head.

"I'm so, so, so sorry. This is my fault — what happened — it doesn't matter what he says about me, I deserve it, don't give him anything more — did Wickham get the money—"

Darcy stepped back, seeing Elizabeth needed space to breathe. He kissed his dear wife on the forehead again and answered Georgiana's question. "Everything is well. We captured him, and he is in a room downstairs. Richard and Tomlinson will manage him."

Georgiana suddenly snarled at Lord Matlock who had entered the room, and she seized Elizabeth's hand, pulling her away from her uncle. "I'll not let you take me away. Not again."

Rather than the blustering shouts he used earlier in the day, Matlock sighed like an old man, and did not say anything.

Both gentlemen followed Georgiana and Elizabeth into the sitting room which connected their suite. Elizabeth pulled to a firm stop as Georgiana tried to pull her along by the hand. "I shot him. I tried to kill him. I tried to kill a man."

"Good!" Georgiana's reply was vicious. "I wish you had killed that horrible man. I told you he should be shot."

Georgiana dropped Elizabeth's hands, and clapped her hands against her face. "Wait! Must we flee to escape the law? Shall we go to America?"

Darcy detected a little amusement in his uncle's tone as he replied, "Nay, do not worry. All shall be fine. There's no reason to visit the rebels."

"Oh." There was something slightly disappointed in Georgiana's voice. She then embraced Elizabeth tightly yet again. "Lizzy — I would have shot somebody for you too."

Elizabeth sat down on the sofa, as though she could not stand anymore, and Darcy collapsed next to her. His body ached with fatigue and shakiness. Georgiana squeezed to Elizabeth's other side. The fear returned to Darcy's gut and he put his arm around Lizzy's shoulders again and squeezed her tight against his side. That gunshot would haunt his nightmares.

They were quiet, and Matlock speculatively looked at them. He looked ragged and old. His fashionably tied neck cloth had come undone during the morning, and now crookedly sat around his neck in a loose unfolded clump. At last he sat straight and held his arms easily to his sides. "I cannot. I will let you correspond with Georgiana, and brief visits, ideally where no one might see that I've allowed the connection, but I cannot let her live with you two. Besides it would reward Georgiana's disobedience and stupidity, and surely you must agree that would be wrong."

Georgiana squeezed Elizabeth's arm against her stomach and exclaimed, "If you lock me away from Lizzy and Fitzwilliam again, I'll run away again. I will, I swear. I will."

Darcy grimaced at the anger that crossed Lord Matlock's face, and Elizabeth winced. Matlock exclaimed, "You were a fool who ran away with a fortune hunter. I'll lock you in your suites at Matlock and throw away the key until you've grown out of such foolishness."

"No!" Everyone was shocked by Elizabeth's shout. She pulled away from Darcy and Georgiana and said, "I'll stop you. I will." Her hand was shaking as she angrily stabbed a finger towards Matlock. "You've already stuck her in a miserable situation, something nearly a prison, by ripping Georgie away from those who care most for her. I won't let you restrict her further. I won't, I won't, I won't."

"And what would you do, Mrs. Darcy? Shoot me like you planned to shoot Wickham?"

"I have been imprisoned. I know what evil it is. And—"

"Not that nonsense story again." Matlock sneered as he spoke sharply of Lizzy. "You may have fooled Darcy and Georgiana, but I know full well you lied to trap a richer husband."

Elizabeth glared at him, holding her body erect and tense forward on the sofa. Darcy tried to pull her back against him, but she refused to move, and something in her manner told Darcy that she was on the edge of hysteria. It did not surprise him after the events of the morning. He put his hands softly on her shoulder and tried to massage the knots in her muscles.

"Georgiana is my ward and my niece. She is my blood, not yours, Mrs. Darcy, and it is my place to determine how she shall be managed."

"True family is made up of those who care for us, and who love us and who stand with us." Elizabeth's voice rose into a shriek as she vibrated on the edge of the sofa. "You care for nothing but money and the opinion of your friends. Everyone else, my mother, my oldest sister, my friend, my uncle, everyone else wanted to force me to marry him. But Georgie didn't, and if I need to shoot you, I won't miss this time."

Elizabeth's arm was outstretched, wavering like it had in the clearing.

Matlock tugged at the edge of his ear and something of the anger he'd shown ebbed away.

Lizzy clapped her hand against her mouth. "I do not know why I said that. I do not. I am so shaky. But…but…normally I am quite sane. I am. I do not know what is the matter with me? I should not have insulted you like that."

Darcy stood and pulled his sobbing wife up with him. "We will return in a few minutes."

They walked into their own chambers and sat on the bed. At last alone, he held Elizabeth as she cried. She lifted her face to his and they kissed softly and reassuringly.

Elizabeth said, "I do not know what is the matter with me? I did not mean to bring the gun. I told myself again and again I would leave it behind. But I still put it in my pocket. And now your uncle won't even permit us to correspond with Georgie, not after I threatened to shoot him too. What is wrong with me?"

"Oh, Lizzy. Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy." Darcy felt himself trembling and shaking, and Elizabeth held him. "You shouldn't have gone alone! Never, never, never — don't ever again. If I lost you — you shouldn't have!"

Lizzy squeezed him tight and pressed her face against his chest. "I know, I know."

"Never again!"

He pulled Lizzy's body against his and squeezed her tighter than he ever had before. She let out a small oof and rubbed her face against his chest.

Darcy sobbed, his tears falling into her disordered hair. "If I lost you — I could not survive it."

"Fitzwilliam—"

"When I heard that shot — I was certain I would only be there in time to see you die in my arms. I swear it aged me ten years." He held Elizabeth close, breathing in her sweet hair and feeling her precious, living warmth. It had only been the nightmare of a moment. He didn't think he would ever let go of her again.

She said in a quiet strained whisper, "Please, loosen a little, I can barely breathe."

"Oh." Darcy blushed and let go.

Elizabeth laughed, an enchanting living sound. She scooted around so that she sat more comfortably on Darcy's lap and her arms held him tight, squeezing him hard, because she knew he needed to feel her that way. She nestled her head against his chest again. "I shouldn't have," she said. "I did not think how it would hurt you. I know I shouldn't have shot him, but I don't know what I should have done."

"You should have given Tomlinson the note."

"But what if his ambush failed?"

"Then it would have failed." Darcy pulled her tightly against him again. "By Jove, Lizzy. It isn't worth it. A matter of reputation isn't worth a life."

"You killed Sir Clement."

"He was dangerous and obsessed with you. He needed to die because he wouldn't have given up. Wickham only wants money. And by God, trying to shoot him… Lizzy, never again."

"I shouldn't have done it. I know I shouldn't have." Darcy felt guilty for letting his fear-driven anger make him berate her.

"Oh, Lizzy." He kissed her on the lips. "You didn't do anything wrong, since you intentionally missed."

"Maybe I did. I don't know. I don't know."

"Also you won't have any need to shoot my uncle; remember, if we are not happy with him we will just run with Georgie to the continent."

Elizabeth giggled wetly. He gave her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose, and they softly kissed again.

They sat with their arms entwined around each other, and slowly the terrible anxious feeling in Darcy's stomach loosened just a little. Elizabeth yawned and said, "We must finish talking to Matlock. And I need to apologize again."

As soon as they entered the sitting room, Elizabeth curtsied to Matlock who sat with his chin pillowed on a fist. "I do apologize again, my Lord, for what I said."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You have had a difficult day, and I knew it. We are all tired. I had given you cause for offense."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Georgie threw her arms around Elizabeth and said, "You did not say anything wrong. Uncle Matlock deserved everything you said if he wants to lock me up even more."

Sarah entered the room carrying a tea tray and she set it on the low table in the middle of the room. "Mrs. Darcy, you must drink some, you know you should calm down." The servant assiduously pushed her mistress to sit back down and slowly sip from her cup. Darcy and Georgiana also sat down, and Georgiana poured a cup for herself and her brother from the pot.

At Darcy's glare she poured a fourth cup, and then put four large scoops of sugar in it before handing it to Matlock. Everyone in the family knew Matlock hated tea that was too sweet. Darcy sighed. Matlock said after he put the cup on the mahogany table to the side of his chair without touching it, "That was sweet of you to serve me so kindly, Georgie."

The girl blushed and glared defiantly. Darcy could feel in the arm that he held around Lizzy that she was slowly relaxing further under the influence of the ritual of drinking tea. There was nothing so good as a cup of tea during a difficult time.

Matlock asked, "So you really were locked up for not marrying Sir Clement? Stanley had been certain the story you told Georgie was a scheme to get him to marry you instead."

"What!" Elizabeth swallowed her tea wrong and coughed until her face went red.

Georgiana giggled. "How absurd. Lizzy never liked Stanley in the slightest. How ridiculous."

"It is not at all ridiculous, and the way she sent a letter to Fitzwilliam as soon as she knew he was the master of Pemberley confirmed my ill opinion of her. Why did you send such a letter if you weren't a fortune hunter?"

"Oh, Lizzy and I wrote Fitzwilliam a letter every other week after we learned he was alive," Georgiana replied immediately. "They were all given to him after he was released. That's how Fitzwilliam fell in love with Lizzy. Reading her letters, isn't that so romantic?"

Matlock hummed thoughtfully and absently grabbed the cup of tea that he had placed on the side table and took a sip. "Good God, Georgie! Did you need to put so much sugar in?" He sharply sat the cup back down. "I suppose that does acquit you of the charge of pursuing Fitzwilliam only once he became wealthy."

Georgiana replied enthusiastically, "Of course Lizzy isn't a fortune hunter! Everyone thinks that because they are horrible and stupid. She is the best person in the world."

"That was still deuced improper of you, Mrs. Darcy. I don't care why. Well-bred girls don't write to unmarried gentlemen."

"Maybe I'm not well-bred. But I would…I do not care if my affection leads me to act in an ill-bred manner. Those letters…they were a matter of sincere affection and care."

"Yes." Matlock pulled at his nose. "But the result is everybody thinks you are the worst sort of fortune hunter possible."

Darcy snapped, "You played into Mr. Allen's hands. You were as eager as he was to defame Lizzy. I remember how happily you answered the question about the letter. That is your fault also."

"Perhaps you are right." Matlock studied Elizabeth's face. "Fine. I misjudged you then. I admit it. And while nothing I could have done would have stopped Allen's scheme, I did not treat you as part of the family. But blame does not matter now. If I put Georgie in your care, it would become far more difficult for her to enter society successfully and marry well."

"I don't care!" Georgiana stomped her foot on the rug. "I would never marry someone who didn't love Lizzy. I will only marry a man after I know him well and trust him completely. It would be disgusting otherwise. I was stupid to go away with Wickham. I want to marry someone who is a dear, dear friend, like how Lizzy and Fitzwilliam are, and I won't let you force me to marry someone I don't adore because it would be a good match."

"No. You wouldn't." Matlock sighed. "By Jove. I don't wish to make you unhappy — but I have a duty."

Richard entered the room, looking fresher than the rest of them in his polished knee-high boots and smart red coat with its white belt and golden epaulettes. "Fitzwilliam," he said with great cheerfulness, "your Tomlinson is a fine man, a damned fine man. The only flaw I see with him is that he expressed a decided disinterest in rejoining the army. I could use a man like him."

Darcy grinned back. "Everyone could. However, I am the one who has him."

"He is disturbingly inventive." Richard sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. "After the doctor finished bandaging Wickham up, we discussed ways to kill him without any chance of the authorities connecting us to his death. At least three of your man's ideas would almost certainly work."

"Did our old friend participate in this discussion?"

"Not in any substantive way, but he did moan a few times when we poked him to ask."

"I suppose it would be a little much to expect him to enter into the spirit of figuring out how best to hide his own body."

"I expected it of him." Richard shrugged urbanely. "Dreadfully disappointing, but Wickham always has dreadfully disappointed me. He won't talk about Georgie. Tomlinson convinced both of us that if any story gets spread about her, Wickham will be hunted down and murdered. Damned shame that I can't recruit him away from you."

Elizabeth yawned and started blinking her eyes. Darcy realized he was terribly tired as well. "Lizzy, did you get any sleep last night?"

She shook her head.

Darcy asked, "Matlock, can I trust you to not try dragging Georgie away until we can finish discussing this after Lizzy and I rest?"

Matlock nodded and stood. "I was in a carriage all night as well. We'll see — I suppose I must let Georgie stay with you, at least for part of the year. I wish there was something that could be done about Mrs. Darcy's reputation — this will damage Georgie's prospects. I suppose a woman like you does not see that as a serious matter."

"I know it matters." Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and shook her head as though in a daze. "I am now accepted by the gentry families near Pemberley. So matters are not so bad as they were at first."

"Rural society is not London. But that is promising. No matter. If I locked Georgie up, she would refuse to make a good match, just to spite me."


	36. Chapter 36

Elizabeth was mostly recovered from her fatigue by the time she woke the next morning. When they woke the afternoon before, Fitzwilliam had squeezed her arms and pushed her into the bed with all his weight, and they had made love hard and fast as they desperately sought to reassure themselves they were alive and well.

During their conversation after dinner, Lord Matlock decided that he would let Georgiana stay with them for at least half the year, and she would not need to return to that horrid school. But he'd brooded, and Elizabeth also felt bad. But Elizabeth firmly believed it was better for Georgiana to be with her and Fitzwilliam than for her to make a brilliant splash when she came out.

Georgiana irrepressibly chattered during the heavy breakfast of the finest hams, eggs, and pastries which the inn had provided for its noble guests. Since they were no longer her inveterate enemies, Georgiana talked sweetly with her uncle, when she did not have Elizabeth or Fitzwilliam's attention.

The post was brought by one of the inn's footmen during the middle of breakfast, and Elizabeth received a rather surprising letter that had been forwarded from Pemberley. After recognizing the direction and hand, she stopped eating to open it and read through it several times before Darcy laid a hand on her arm and asked softly, "What does it say?"

"My sister Kitty is to marry Sir Clement. Also, my cousin Mr. Collins is dead."

Georgiana clapped. "He is! That is such good news."

Though the thought was unchristian, Elizabeth felt the same. She remembered the old man watching the maid clean out her room while rubbing his hands gleefully every time she spoke to him.

Lord Matlock wrinkled his eyebrows. "Was not Sir Clement the man Darcy killed in that duel?"

Elizabeth handed the letter to Fitzwilliam, so that he could read it. "His son."

"The son of the man your husband killed plans to marry your sister? Singular."

"It is not so odd — he despised his father."

"It is an improper way to treat the memory." Matlock washed down a bite of food with his coffee.

Darcy folded the letter and handed it back to Elizabeth. "So Kitty wishes us to be at her wedding."

"She and Lydia were kind to me. They didn't think it was right for me to be forced to marry. For her sake I would wish to go, but…" Elizabeth smiled weakly at Darcy. "You know I do not want to return to the environs of Longbourn."

Darcy took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. She sometimes woke with nightmares about being locked in a lightless room.

Matlock finished the last bite of his ham and pushed his plate away. The footman standing on the edge of the room hurried to remove it from the table. "Is this only your sister's wish? Are you certain that Sir Clement approves?"

"Entirely," Elizabeth replied, "he wrote half the letter. We were friends, because his mother and I became close as she was dying."

"Then you must go, Mrs. Darcy."

"Must?" Fitzwilliam's voice was sharp, and Elizabeth smiled at how he wished to defend her from any overbearing imposition. "It is Lizzy's choice."

Elizabeth tapped her knee against Fitzwilliam's and said to Lord Matlock, "You believe it would be good for my reputation if I am on friendly terms with Sir Clement's son?"

"Especially if he will introduce you to his connections in London. After Mr. Allen's speech, many in London would feel obligated to refuse the acquaintance if I and my wife tried to push it on them. However, if the new Sir Clement introduced you, it would no longer be possible to refuse the acquaintance out of respect for his father's memory. Besides all of the gossips would like to know you. Curiosity."

"Lizzy, if you don't wish to go, we do not need to." Darcy touched her reassuringly. "We can send letters and gifts and beg to spend time with your sister and her husband during their honeymoon, away from Meryton."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I think… I want to go. Maybe even see the house again. I was happy there for a long time."

"If we are to go, we must have Kitty promise that she will keep your mother away from you."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy's compassionate gaze. "Do not worry about me. Besides, even if she speaks to me, I won't speak to her."

Despite Darcy's comforting presence, Elizabeth felt so nervous the day they left a weak later to go to Netherfield for a stay before the wedding that she actually threw up in the morning, and she could not eat anything but the rolls out of what the inn offered for breakfast. However oddly she felt much better an hour into the carriage ride. She was a little tired even though she'd slept well the previous night.

Matlock and Richard returned to London when they set off, but Georgiana traveled with them, given into their care by Lord Matlock. The presence of a third person in their carriage meant certain travel activities were no longer possible, but Elizabeth was so delighted to have her sister back that she didn't care.

Through correspondence the plan was established for them to stay at Netherfield for three weeks. Fitzwilliam had written what Elizabeth suspected was a delightfully rude letter to Mama, but the result was that she'd agreed to never approach Elizabeth, and Elizabeth and Darcy would take Lydia with them to Pemberley for a visit of at least eight weeks.

Elizabeth wondered what Jane would say. And Charlotte. Charlotte probably would not even try to talk to her. Charlotte was not forgivable, and Elizabeth would cut her if she was approached. Hopefully Charlotte would not. According to Kitty she was still unmarried and now twenty-seven.

Elizabeth was glad that rather than pleasure at the news of Charlotte's continued spinsterhood, she only felt mild interest.

As they pulled up to the drive of Netherfield, Fitzwilliam gripped her hand tightly. Elizabeth closed her eyes when they pulled to a stop, refusing to look outside to see everyone gathered, and then she kissed her dear husband's cheek, and knew that since he would be with her the entire time, it would all be wonderful.

Jane was there, standing next to her husband. But fortunately, Mama had not tried to impose herself on them. Fitzwilliam would have ordered the carriage to drive on if she had been there.

Kitty and Lydia ran up to her, looking much older and completely grown up, and they embraced. Then Georgiana was prettily reintroduced to them. Mary looked hesitant, but Elizabeth decided to have nothing to do with that and embraced her as well. All of the sisters smiled at each other, except Elizabeth ignored Jane.

Sir Clement looked a little like his father, but Elizabeth was not bothered by the resemblance, and he greeted her heartily, and then to Fitzwilliam's bemusement thanked and praised her husband for all of the good he had done.

Jane then said with her soft voice, "Will you not embrace me as well, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth saw Fitzwilliam's grimace. She shook Jane's hand briefly, and then Mr. Collins. "Cousin, I am glad to see you looking so well. My condolences on the death of your father."

"I am glad to see you as well again, Elizabeth. At first I believed my duty meant that I ought not greet you, as my estimable father thought ill of you and your husband, but Miss Mary suggested that ending quarrels amongst families was a matter of greater duty, and as Sir Clement bears you no ill will, it is not my place to do so either. I am willing to bury all past matters and think nothing about them. After all the Holy Book says, Let the dead bury the dead."

Elizabeth smiled. His manners had not been improved by being raised to the mastery of Longbourn. "I assure you, Cousin, I am willing to treat you on the greatest of good terms." She knew she was intentionally not speaking to Jane, but her resentment made it impossible to treat Jane kindly unless she begged for forgiveness first.

How could Jane have asked to be embraced like a real sister? Elizabeth glanced for an instant towards Jane, and she saw that while her outward expression was completely complacent and smiling, there was that little tightness on the edge of her eyes that showed Jane was hurt.

Good.

Elizabeth took Fitzwilliam's arm as Sir Clement led them into the house and then into his drawing room. He said to Fitzwilliam, "Since you asked, I wrote to all of my relatives and my school friends how delighted I am that such a dear friend as your wife will be here for the wedding. I do swear I will do everything I can to help. I had not realized how poorly Miss Bennet was received by the ton, I mean Mrs. Darcy—"

"Call me Lizzy. We are to be family."

"I shall. I am glad you are willing to forgive me for the horrible, horrible way my father treated you. He deserved to die, and I only wish he had suffered the way my mother did. She was comforted by your friendship and would be delighted to know you will be my sister."

"And I am delighted to be your sister. Your father was a poor fellow." Elizabeth smiled enchantingly, not looking towards Jane. "I have relatives I do not like at all, so judging you based on him would be quite hypocritical."

Kitty exclaimed, "No more of that. This shall be a happy time. But, Lizzy, do you really want us to visit you at Pemberley during our honeymoon, I remember you saying how beautiful it was."

"I remember speaking mainly of the library, and unless your habits have changed, it will be you who does us the favor. But I shall be very eager to see you again. It has been too long."

"Nonsense." Kitty smiled at her. "You spoke just as much about that park, and it will be early in the hunting season, and we shall have a grand time. But thank you very much for your goodness in offering."

Elizabeth glanced back at Jane, and she had a confused crease between her eyes. With a shock Elizabeth realized Jane had no idea that she had behaved so wrongly by pushing her to marry Sir Clement in the way she did.

Well, Elizabeth would not enlighten her.

Lydia was still boisterous, and Kitty was almost as bouncy. Sir Clement was a very young man and rather inclined to join them in their enthusiasms. He was still one and twenty, and Elizabeth gained a sense that while he was infatuated with Kitty, one motive for the marriage was to spite his uncle, the Mr. Allen who had attacked Elizabeth's reputation during the trial.

Still he was impressed by Fitzwilliam and willing to agree with and follow his advice. Elizabeth rather hoped that by giving him a solid older friend, the connection might help Sir Clement as much as it promised to help Fitzwilliam and her.

Jane entered the conversation a few times, but Elizabeth never replied directly to anything she said, and if she said something directly to Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam inevitably responded for her.

It was petty behavior on their part, but Elizabeth was delighted by her husband's wonderful willingness to support her in anything, even pettiness. He really was wonderful.

Over the next three weeks Elizabeth visited many of her old haunts again. She never did go near Longbourn, with her mother and the room they'd trapped her in, but she walked and visited everywhere else. All of her old friends claimed, and Elizabeth believed them, that they'd always known all along she had not wanted to marry Sir Clement, and they thought it a good thing she had married Darcy instead of the baronet. Those who had heard the story Mr. Allen told said they had never heard anything so ridiculous — everyone knew she despised Sir Clement. The general belief in the neighborhood was that by noticing Kitty and Sir Clement, Elizabeth did them a kind favor. Though no one mentioned it, everyone saw that Elizabeth did not notice her mother, oldest sister, or Charlotte Lucas.

Charlotte had been wise enough to not approach her, and before the wedding she only saw Mama one time. Her mother had been in fine spirits on the other side of the room, chattering loudly to Lady Lucas about how delighted she was to see so many of her daughters well settled. Elizabeth had gone to the opposite side of Mr. Gould's house immediately and sat in a chair with a frown. Then Fitzwilliam came and teased her into a good mood.

The wedding was held on a bright hot summer day, with insects lazily buzzing and warm smells filling the stagnant air. After the reception at Longbourn they would take the carriage to London to stay for two weeks to shop and visit a few attractions before heading north to Pemberley.

She and Fitzwilliam sat together in one of the front pews, with Georgie on her other side. Elizabeth held Fitzwilliam's hand and remembered. She had stood right where Kitty did when she married, and if the day as a whole had been awful, she had been happy at that moment.

The way Fitzwilliam smiled and laced their fingers together showed he had the same memories in mind. Helplessly Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes as the parson performed the ceremony.

That night when they were safely back in their London house, Elizabeth snuggled against Darcy. "Thank you for looking over all the rooms at Longbourn with me during the reception."

"I do fondly remember how your father made me take a glass of port with him every evening in the study during the two weeks when Georgiana and I visited you."

"I'm so glad you offered to buy all of Father's books from Cousin William."

"And I am so glad you are glad."

She kissed Fitzwilliam's smile and then his hair. "We didn't look at the stables, but we should have. Do you remember how you found me there kissing a cat?"

"Lucky creature. I ought to find him and challenge him to a duel for kissing you."

Elizabeth giggled. "She was a girl cat."

"Oh." Fitzwilliam laughed and tickled her side. "I suppose it was all right then. I do remember. That was when you made me promise to write you. Quite improper to beg me so, Miss Elizabeth."

"You were just as improper when you agreed to write me." Elizabeth pinched him.

"I was, wasn't I. I suppose it shows that we do belong together. Since both of us are completely lost to notions of good breeding."

"No, no. That is only me. You suggested we shouldn't. You are only partly lost to good breeding. But I have always been able to wind you around my finger whenever I wanted something from you. A capability I have happily abused many times."

"Yes. My inability to resist your ill-bred notions also proves we belong together."

"Everything proves we belong together. Especially how handsome of a picture we make standing together."

"Is that your method of suggesting we should sit for a joint portrait, because I find sitting for a picture a tedious business." Fitzwilliam grinned at her.

Elizabeth pouted. "I am the one who finds it a tedious business, as you know full well."

"You did write something of the sort in your letters." He kissed her nose. "Maybe it wouldn't be so dull if we sat together."

"We'd do something to make each other laugh, and since you would insist on hiring some temperamental, expensive painter—"

"Nothing but the best for you, my love."

"— he would become terribly annoyed at the interruption and throw his brush at the work he'd already done, and then stalk out and we would end with nothing but the lost time."

"Now, Lizzy, do be reasonable, if we make each other laugh, clearly the time wasn't completely wasted."

"Fine. If you insist, we will sit for a portrait together. But only since you insisted on it."

"I am pleased it was so easy to persuade you to do something which I was not trying to persuade you to do."

"I like the idea of having a portrait."

"So I am pleased you persuaded yourself to it, since I like the idea too."

Elizabeth pinched him again, and he tickled her side in retaliation. Elizabeth squeaked and wriggled away. "We'll ask about tomorrow to find who is the best person to do it."

Conversation subsided, and Elizabeth leaned sleepily against his chest.

Fitzwilliam said, "I do like Clement and I will be happy to have Kitty and Lydia visit."

"But you don't expect to ever be very close to them."

"Maybe not. It is disconcerting the way Clement listens to me. He is like a puppy."

"Poor Fitzwilliam, impressing a gentleman too much. If you were a lady, I'd be terribly jealous of Clement."

"If I were a lady, you'd think nothing of the sort."

Elizabeth snorted and grinned happily at the way he tickled her again.

Fitzwilliam added, "I do find it difficult to become close to people. With you here, and Georgie now — I confess I felt a little awkward with her at first, and with how close you two were—"

"Did you feel left out and abandoned because your sister likes me better?"

"Quite the reverse I assure you."

Elizabeth giggled. "I knew you felt a little jealousy of Georgie at first. Which was delightfully silly, but natural. It had been just us two for so long, and until she marries, Georgie will be near us often. But however much I talk to her, it isn't her who I fall asleep with."

"I am completely happy with her company now, after how she vacated the room tonight right when I silently begged her to do so because I'd decided I needed to kiss you." So saying, Fitzwilliam kissed her again.

Elizabeth replied, "I talked with her and gave her a set of signals to let her know when to leave us alone."

"Oh." He blushed. Then he said, "I am very glad she has you to talk to. And with our example, hopefully she will know what to look for in a good marriage. Clearly she'd had too much romantic nonsense filling her head if she ever thought Wickham was suitable."

"I do hope so. Wickham turned out to be useful in the end, since she received a shock that should encourage her to listen to us without assuming she knows best next time she feels an infatuation."

"Wickham has been endlessly useful. Which makes a terrible moral, and he would hate it if he knew, since he despises being of use."

"That he would hate it is sufficient compensation for the poor moral."

"Quite right." Fitzwilliam kissed her again. Then he said holding her tight against her, "I am glad we shall be able to visit London and society next season."

"But…" Elizabeth smiled at her husband.

"But for my own part, I confess I do not wish a bigger family circle."

"Oh! That is very bad!" Elizabeth made her worst fake frown. That statement provided the perfect opportunity for her announcement.

"Why is that so very bad?"

"Well, I had news which I thought would please you. But if you do not want more family…"

Fitzwilliam stared at her wide eyed as she grinned impishly back at him.

"You mean you are…"

"It seems the reason I have been sick in the morning of late was neither nerves nor something I ate."

He grabbed her face and kissed her passionately.

Elizabeth kissed him back and said, "I am afraid you will have to add a very small child to the family circle early next year."

"I might not mind quite so much as I suggested."

* * *

A Request:

This, once more, is the part of the book where I beg you to donate to Doctors Without Borders.

I am not going to tell one of those heartrending stories about extreme poverty you have heard before. Instead I will tell you why it is extremely important to me to interrupt your book, a book you paid for, with a fundraising appeal.

Last summer my brother graduated from college. For the ceremony they sat a thousand relatives of the happy escapees into the real world on folding chairs in the beating sun and made them wait. And wait.

While we waited for the long march of engineering students to begin, so we could start to listen to speeches about life in the future, a projector cycled through photos of the graduating class. Each photo had a sentence where the student said what they wanted to do now that they had graduated. Make money appeared once or twice. Make Mom and Dad proud was far more common. Find a job was occasional.

By far the most common response, however, what around a third of the students said, was some variant of, "I want to make the world a better place."

Do you?

I do; I hope you do too.

I, like most of you, improve the world directly through my work. My best guess is that you collectively have spent at least a hundred times as many hours reading my first books as I spent writing them. I have changed literally years of lived human experience. That is a great reward for an author. Perhaps the rewards you receive from your job are different, but most likely someone's life is better because of what you do.

But we all can do more. I want to do more. I would not be able to pretend to myself that I am a good person if I ignored an obvious opportunity to help other people.

Donations save lives. We can literally do what superheroes do. So help me make the world a better place by supporting Doctors Without Borders, and make yourself a little bit more like superman.

You are at least vaguely aware of the statistics about preventable death. You have heard touching stories that end with the child living because of a lifesaving donation. You don't need to be told why you should donate to Doctors Without Borders or another organization that alleviates suffering. You already know.

So if you care about these matters, just do it.

Please, please, please. Be the change you want to see in the world. Do something which will make your children proud. Make the world a better place. Donate something: one percent of your income; ten dollars a month; something. Create a world where everyone has access to basic medical care.


End file.
